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This day...

In this modern world, 27 years of marriage is quite the milestone. And believe me when I tell you that it's not an easy one to make. Don't get me wrong: I don't regret a moment of it. It's just not all as gauzy and syrupy sweet as the romance stories want to make it. No relationship in this world can ever be that perfect. That's the challenge, you see: Finding someone you love so much that you can overlook, deal with, sometimes even chuckle over all the things about them that drive you absolutely nuts. Never pretend that you can "tolerate" something about your mate. You tolerate a toothache. What you have to do is_accept_ those things. They're part of him, and you have to accept, lovingly, even those things which could actively work to destroy a marriage. If you can't love all that your would-be mate is, you might want to keep looking.

Neville and my courtship could be measured in many ways. From our first contact to our first meeting was a good fifteen months or so; from our first meeting to the moment that we were sure we wanted to be together was all of a week. We lived together for not quite a year before we were married on that late August Saturday afternoon. Our 27th wedding anniversary is an undisputed date, but the point at which we genuinely fell in love and knew we belonged to each other... that's a different kind of math. We were lucky to know what we'd found early on, despite our previous disappointments. Truly, love this strong is worth any number of little flaws and issues. You know - toilet paper.

I don't want my comments about flaws to sound one-sided, either. I don't think either of us would want all of our flaws paraded before you. You know that we would get upset with one another, and we'd usually walk it off and work it out. You might find it interesting to know that something that bothered Neville a great deal was when I would defend his writing against detractors. He was glad of my support, but as some of you know, I could get more than a little heated when Neville's writings were openly attacked. A fair review is one thing; vitriol is something else, and I tended to spew it right back at them. I didn't start flame wars, but I by damn knew how to end them. I probably earned my notoriety, on more than a few sites, and Neville was embarrassed by it. I suppose it wasn't really necessary to have defended him "red in tooth and claw," and I tried to back it down. As some of you know, it didn't always go down well. Over the years, though, I think my opinions were vindicated, ultimately. That's something else to celebrate today.

I've told you of that one night, the one time that I heard Valentín's voice. I told you that everything changed from that point onward. Neville became himself fully after that night. It was as if my hearing the voice of his great black bull, his one great love of his next life, had finally affirmed all that he had wanted to believe about himself, and for that matter, all about me. A few changes were subtle; I didn't notice them at first. Mostly, he began changing his eating habits. Both of us were still trash compactors, much of the time, but it occurred to me after a while that he had been cutting back on his portions, eating less junk food, and sometimes when I was working, he'd go for a walk just to go for a walk. At one point, when I found he was doing short bursts of power walking, I thought it was because he knew how much I enjoyed the scent of him, just as he often liked me after my workouts. It was only later, after one of his quarterly health check-ups had shown his overall health improving significantly, that I realized that he was trying to stay with me longer. It occurred to me that, before we met, he was more likely to want to be with his Valentín as soon as possible, and I couldn't really blame him. It was after that night... he wanted to be with me enough to postpone being with his best beloved of his next life. He really wanted to live this life. With me.

Other changes were much more immediate. He threw himself into his work so fully, produced so much writing, and yet somehow still had time for me, for his friends. I asked him once, and he said that it was because he didn't spend so much time hesitating over his every word. He plunged ahead, "listening to my muse instead of wrestling with it." Some of it went the way of the computer recycle bin, but much of it was kept, reviewed, reworked, polished, and posted in many locations. He began writing for anthologies as well, and his novels... I don't know how many of you have read them, but they got some attention, more and more over the years. Remember the writer who said that Neville was a hack? Heard from him lately, have you? I beg forgiveness for the schadenfreude, but it's no more than fair. Neville only encouraged every writer that came across his path, every one that showed talent, creative originality, a sense of something new and wonderful. Do you recognize the names Winfred Corbin, Shadrick Darkclaw, and Kristofer Kaldarón? I thought that you might. Each one was a self-proclaimed_kohai_ to Neville. Kristofer's new book of works will be coming out soon, and his dedication is quite lavish, some even deride it by calling it "fulsome." Bugger 'em; we know the truth.

Neville did it all, and I'm not sure which of us was more proud of his receiving his PhD in recognition of a lifetime of writing and experience. This, too, was brought under scrutiny and ridicule, with people saying it wasn't a "real" doctorate from a "real" college. Two things silenced that little issue. First, the teaching requirements of our local college (just as an example) required "an advanced degree," and they were so eager to have their own "Writer in Residence" that they accepted the accreditation on its face. Then, just to make sure that other venerable educational institutions were kept at bay, Neville wrote his formal thesis and had it peer-reviewed at the college. It was a bitch for him, as he didn't have the luxury of cherry-picking his research! We can all laugh at that. He researched a lot for his stories and novels, but for full-scale thesis work, it was not a happy undertaking. He did it, though. All of it and more, still writing stories, teaching, grading papers, mentoring his young writers... you'd wonder where he found the energy. He told me once that I was his drug, and that he preferred taking me as an injection. I'll just let that image percolate for you.

Neville's the writer in the family; he could give you a far better history of our life together than I could, but let me at least try. Thanks to his being faculty at the college, I was able to earn my degree, partly through credits for my work, partly from "testing out" of a few elementary courses, and ultimately taking the various courses needed for a Bachelor of Science in Information Technology. Neville never missed the chance to tell anyone who would listen how proud he was of me. I was even given permission to take a class that he taught, with the proviso that another professor would grade my essays and tests. My badger almost took exception to one grade, and I had to deflect him gently from making too much of a stink about it. I don't think he planned it to be, but it was the lesson that taught me how he felt when I defended his work too vigorously. Besides, I still got a very respectable B+ out of that course.

I think that we helped to put this small town and its various institutions on a lot of maps, particularly La Hacienda, the restaurant owned and run by Miguelito Velasquez' family for all these years. Neville and I had our wedding reception there, and we celebrated our anniversary there every year, whether with a crowd or just ourselves. It was like a good luck charm for us. Miguelito himself passed six years ago, but we never quit his restaurant or his family. Our college's chapter of Sigma Tau Delta, the English students' honor society, would gather there, when Neville was at the helm. In honor of Miguelito, we always celebrate the_Dia del Muertos_dinner there. Mi Español no es bonita,_but I did manage to learn the song _Plegaria a un Labrador, to sing it at one such festival, accompanied by the mariachi trio who played at our wedding. They helped to coach me through it, and Migeulito's wife, Ximena, cried on my shoulder that night. I never thought that tears would be such a welcome comment on my singing.

The college definitely benefitted from Neville's professorship, in many ways. He taught an extension course in the basics of writing, a weekly class on Saturdays during the semester, with people coming in from as far away as Ferguson and Timberlake to attend. A good number of students listed Neville's presence, as teacher and writing mentor, as being their deciding factor in attending our small college. He was invited often as a guest lecturer, at colleges and high schools, as well as at writers conferences across the country. I won't name-drop how many authors he knew personally; several are here today, to celebrate with us, so they can introduce themselves if they wish.

Neville took a lot of heat for not joining the writer's guild. It wasn't that he wanted to oppose the union; both of us took our very-liberal left-leaning voter IDs to many an election day, hoping to do some good. He declined being part of the union because it was a closed clique, and he said so more than once. For those working in television, film, news media, markets that need a union, he said that it was probably a good idea for you to try to join. It was easy to do: Simply get a union job without being in the union first, then you can apply to the union for an initial membership fee larger than your first four jobs combined, and then if you can afford to live on union-only jobs in a right-to-work state (where union work is only 10% of the marketplace), and then keep up with paying the union dues for ten years, you can have a vested retirement plan, you should live so long. The alternative is to make sure you apply your sexual skills to whoever controls enough strings to get you in. That's why Neville always called them G-strings.

When it came to writing, Neville was a staunch believer in backing new talent wherever it came from. We've already mentioned some of the writers that he helped through the years. There are names you've never heard of, names you may not hear again, but each and every one got Neville's full support and attention for as long as they wanted it. Many had applied to the guild and found their way blocked by the well-meaning members who simply didn't give their blessing to "just anyone." Unions are like that, and for certain aspects of writing, we need them. You don't need them simply to write, and that's the message that made Neville so unpopular with them. That's why our He Who Shall Not Be Named is no longer named at all. You can't do that much active shutting-out and not pay the price eventually. My badger was nothing if not an exemplar of his own philosophy: "Be who you are and never doubt your worth, even in the face of popular opinion." It took him a long time to believe that fully, and ultimately he modified it just a little by adding, "Find those who believe in you, because that opinion is more important than popular opinion." If you'll forgive me shortening it a bit, my version is, "There's no need for you to be an asshole; the world is already full of 'em."

There wasn't a being in this world that Neville didn't give a chance to. At the risk of being horribly vain, I may be the best example of that. There hasn't been a day when I didn't thank as many gods as I could remember, and maybe a few I made up, for that chance. In his early days of being on writing panels, where he was barely even looked at by others on the podium, he still gave each and every one of them a chance, even when their rudeness tried to block him from responding to questions. He always stayed behind after the panel was done, talking to the furs who didn't quite have the courage to ask their questions during the session. When the self-proclaimed celebrities had left the building, my badger made sure that anyone who wanted a little time with him received it. To use the phrase that came up most often in attendee feedback, Neville was always "real."

_ (The coyote, almost as old now as the badger had been when they met, paused there at the podium for a long moment, looking out across the many furs who had crowded into the church sanctuary, breaking all of the occupancy limit laws. Some smaller adults at the back of the church were perched upon the shoulders of larger ones - a meerkat atop the shoulders of his well-muscled black tiger lover, an older squirrel lovingly supported by the strapping ram she had just met that day. All had come today, some from other countries, to celebrate in the most loving way they knew how. The coyote paused, fighting back a tear.)_

It's difficult for me to talk about Neville in the past tense, for many reasons. We knew it would happen sometime or other. He told me... forgive me, I'm choking up a little here. He told me that, without me with him, he would probably have left many years ago. I have been, and continue to be, so very, very grateful for all that we've done together. Seeing all of you here is an affirmation of a life that I've been so very proud to share. And you are all witnesses to a wedding that has been literally decades in the making.

Reverend Quincy had no questions about my choice of clothing for Neville's burial, but to answer your collective question, the answer is no - it's not the same clothing that we were married in. Same color and design, but fitted for him and made by other paws than were our original outfits. Perhaps its selfish of me to keep the clothes that we first wore that day, over 27 years ago, but truth told, they wouldn't fit him today. My badger took good care of himself in these last many years, flattened his belly, even toned his chest a little. It wasn't vanity, merely; he kept his heart strong, for his body, for himself, for me. And, in truth, for Valentín as well.

There's one more thing that I want you all to know. For all these years, I have lived with Valentín's spirit, but never once in his shadow. Truth told, I hope that I get to meet him, when I finally leave this world. I want to thank him. He kept Neville going until we finally could meet. He gave Neville to me like a gift, wrapped in a perfect ribbon of heart and soul and body. He gave me my first and best reason for living. And perhaps, if I'm very lucky, he'll give me a chance to ride on his shoulders and steer his horns like bicycle handlebars.

Now, Quincy, if you'll help me...

* * * * * * * * * * *

The great lion priest, grayer in mane and muzzle than that day so long ago but still strong and hearty, rose from his place in the front pew, vestments in perfect order, and came up to stand with the coyote at the casket. On both of their faces, there appeared a mere reflection of the deep emotions mixed in an internal maelstrom that reminded them both of that first wedding day. Silently, the coyote produced a black velvet jewelry box from his pocket and gave it to the reverend lion. Quincy opened it, waiting quietly. Raymond raised his left forepaw and placed a final kiss upon his own wedding ring. After, he removed it and placed it into the box. Solemnly, the lion closed the box and gave it back to Raymond.

"Beloved friends," Quincy intoned, "we are here to witness the joining of two beautiful souls in an eternal dance of love." He placed a forepaw on the coyote's shoulder, saying, "In time, three shall be together, forever bound, forever perfect in each other's sight, forever joined - as they always have been - with the Great Spirit that is Love."

Raymond placed the ring box just above the folded forepaws of the badger lying in state in the simple, well-polished box made of maple wood, like so many of the trees that the two had watched turn colors on their honeymoon. Looking skyward, or perhaps heavenward, he spoke clearly. "Neville... Valentín... Do you take each other, for all that you have become, for all that you will grow to be, through the glorious and the devastating, through the setbacks and the successes, through all the transcendent realities of this strange and wonderful thing we call Eternal Life, forever?"

The assembled in the sanctuary spoke as one: "We do."

Quincy squeezed the tears from his eyes and said, "By the power vested in me by the great storyteller, and by the power vested in the great truth that is Love Itself, I pronounce you together, always."

Raymond fell into the lion's arms, sobbing, having lost and gained everything that a life could offer. The assembled company rose as one, weeping and keening, and softly applauding the transcendence of a funeral that had culminated in the most beautiful wedding they had ever witnessed.

* * * * * * * * * *

The October day was cool, clear, a light breeze teasing the leaves from the trees. At the graveside, there were few dark colors among the mourners. Although flowers were put onto the casket, so too was puffed rice thrown in celebration of the newlyweds. Tears flowed from knowing how much they would miss Neville, and tears flowed from knowing that he was not alone, but not a single tear came from sorrow or regret. As the badger would have insisted, the company celebrated an old life and a new life, borrowing strength from each other beneath the bluest of skies. The reception was free of alcohol but not of laughter. Tales were told and retold, stories of deep truths and just enough fabrication to keep the spirit of Neville Baxter Thomason alive for all time.

Many, including the Right Reverend Quincy and his husband Stephen, offered Raymond somewhere other than home to spend this night. He thanked one and all, kissed their tears and blessed each one, and reminded them that he had been alone in the house for some days now. Yes, it was different now - it was, perhaps, more final - but it was still his own house. He knew that he would never be truly alone, although he managed to jest that, perhaps tonight, Neville and Valentín might want their privacy, and he was happy to oblige.

It was Stephen who asked Raymond, later that evening, "Did you ever feel Valentín with you, when you and Neville made love?"

"More than once, yes."

"How did that make you feel?"

The coyote smiled softly. "Loved."

* * * * * * * * * *

It was late when Raymond pulled his car into the driveway of his home. A small floodlight came on automatically at the approach, just as it had done every time a car pulled into the driveway at night for the past two decades or so, but it was difficult not to imagine that Neville had seen the car arrive and activated the light himself. The coyote sat for a few moments, engine off, wondering if he should have taken up Quincy and Stephen's offer after all. He would have had warm, familiar company, a proper cup of tea (making it was, Raymond was certain, part of the requirements of being an Anglican priest), and if he felt like laughing, crying, or anything else, the couple would have shared it with him willingly. He breathed in and out, slowly, finally getting out of the car. He was home now, and it was time for sleep.

Home. His home, or at least his house. Within the next few weeks, depending on any number of circumstances, he would have to open the estate to probate. He and Neville had many things in common, one of them being a measurable quantity of practicality when needed. This included both the realization that he would need to handle that issue, and that now was not the time to think about it.

Raymond entered the house, saw to a few necessary things, then locked up the place for the night. In the bedroom, he stripped to the fur, readied for bed, then hesitated for a moment. Moving to the closet, he found some of Neville's clothes and held them to his nose, remembering, hurting, loving, lost, found, grateful. He sat on the bed, clutching the clothes close to him, still not completely cried-out after all.

"Forgive me, my best beloved," he said to the air or someone nearby. "I'm going to spend some time missing you, a lot. I'll keep going until it's time for me to join you. Don't worry - I won't intentionally make it any sooner than it's supposed to be. I'll make sure I've done all I need to do here first, just as you did." He chuckled very softly. "I still think you had more stories in you, my love, but as the old Vaudevillians used to say, it's always better to leave them wanting more. We talked in general about what to do with everything, and I know you've got clearer instructions somewhere. I'll take care of you, just as I always did. As you always did for me."

The coyote paused a moment, looked at his bare left forepaw, felt himself smile. "Valentín, I know he's with you. Of course I'll miss him, but I know he's all right, better than all right, and that's the main thing. I hope you heard me today, of all days. I meant every word, and I love you too, more than ever. I think--"

He stopped suddenly, the sound through the leaves outside seeming to have changed slightly. His ears up, his eyes opened to the darkness around him, his nose raised to the air, the coyote strained his senses, unable to understand what he was feeling. It was something like a voice, but that was only his mind trying to rationalize the sounds in the air around him. It wasn't a voice, not even like that time when he had heard Valentín with his own ears, or at least his heart. He remembered that, made his emotions still themselves, opened his feelings even more than his physical senses. If only he could make sense of it...

After a few minutes, he sighed heavily. "Maybe the magic only works once," he whispered to the room. Clutching the clothing close to him, the coyote lay down upon the bed. "I still feel you with me, my badger. And you are safe with Valentín until we are all together. Together again for the first time." He smiled softly in the darkness. "I haven't stopped believing, my love. For now... I think I'm just tired."

He closed his weary eyes and, in just a few moments, fell asleep.

* * * * * * * * * * *

When the coyote woke in the morning, he did so simply by opening his eyes. There was no jolt, no alarm, no disquiet, only the single memory of a most vivid dream. He had been walking through a beautiful park, the day cool and crisp around him, the ground bejeweled with ten thousand leaves of every vibrant autumn color imaginable. He walked arm and arm with Neville to one side, and his other arm about the waist of the great black bull, Valentín, who had his arm draped over Raymond's shoulders. He had been singing to them, the beautiful and melancholic song "Forever Autumn." The coyote had never sung better in his life, and he had felt Neville kiss his cheek as Valentín bent down to kiss him atop his head.

He lay on the bed for a long moment, Neville's clothes still close to his chest, and he felt the sense of both spirits close to him. He breathed evenly, realizing what it was that the night, the whispers, the dream had been trying to tell him. He understood.

Rising, he left the clothing on the bed and walked, fur-clad, into the living room. There on the mantel, in pride of place, the humidor waited patiently for him. Opening it (he realized) for the first time in years, he found a silver velvet-covered ring box that he had not seen there before. Heart in his throat, he took it to the dining table and opened it. Within lay a ring known as a rolling triple Russian wedding band. To his untrained eye, each part seemed to be made of a different metal, although he couldn't be sure. There was no note, which surprised him, but a name was inscribed on each band.

He replaced the ring in the box, smiling softly. He would have to wait a little longer...

* * * * * * * * * *

"I knew that he would have had to leave a note somewhere."

It was the following Saturday afternoon, and Raymond had finally taken up Quincy and Stephen's offer of a proper English tea (without the Marmite sandwiches, thanks all the same). The silver ring box had been seen and commented on by the old couple, and they knew that the story behind the ring would have to be told. The lion poured the Earl Gray, smiling. "I have to hope that you brought the note," he said softly. "I've found over the years that I can never get enough of Neville's words."

The coyote brought out the letter from his breast pocket. "It's dated from several years ago; it was about the time that he'd gotten that big advance for his novel_The Calligrapher's Dream._ I'm guessing that's what provided the money for him to do this."

My Beloved Coyote (he read) - I know that you plan on giving your wedding ring to me upon my death, to give to Valentín for our marriage. As much as I long for him, I still hope that I have many more years with you. I want you to know that I love you, so very, very much, and that Valentín is truly honored by your choice. We also know that we could not leave you feeling so alone, so we talked it over and came upon this solution. You'll find a ring box in the humidor; I know that you don't look inside it too often, so it seemed the best place to hide it in plain sight. If you find it before then, the surprise will have been sprung early, but that would be all right too.

_ The rolling triple wedding band, as I'm sure Quincy could tell you, was made to represent Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, in the Russian Orthodox church. Originally, the ring is worn on the right ring finger to begin with, placed there by the priest during the betrothal ceremony; at the wedding, the ring is transferred to the left ring finger, to acknowledge the formal bond. The rings are made of yellow, rose, and white gold, and as you'll see, each is inscribed with one of our names. Wear it as you will, my best beloved, but I would like to suggest the right ring finger. When the time comes, it will be moved to the left, as it should be._

_ I am, in one way, very sad to be writing these words; they will be placed with my other papers and instructions and, if you are reading them, it means that I have left you. But as the Henry Scott Holland poem tells us, "Death is nothing at all. I have but slipped into the next room." Valentín and I will be waiting patiently for you, watching over you until it's time for you to be with us. I love you, Raymond my love, and never doubt that Valentín loves you no less._

The coyote let the tears fall from his eyes - just a few, now, and they were more of joy than sadness. Stephen clapped a forepaw gently on his shoulder and smiled. "Neville is a world-class romantic. You done good."

Raymond looked to the old lion and asked softly, "Would you do the honors, Reverend?"

Quincy smiled, removing the ring from the box as the coyote presented his right forepaw. "No need for being windy," he said softly. "I already know You Do. All three of you." He placed the ring carefully onto Raymond's fourth finger and, in a gesture both courtly and divine, he kissed the ring softly before returning the coyote's paw.

Sitting back in his chair, Raymond sighed softly, sipping tea and feeling truly warm for the first time in a few weeks.

"What's next for you, yowen?"

The coyote laughed softly. "Not as young as I used to be."

"None of us is!" the Highland bull chuckled. "I remember you saying that you were born old, so maybe that's not an issue at this point. What do you plan to do with yourself?"

"Or is it too soon for that question?" Quincy added.

"Estate first, I'm sure." Raymond smiled softly. "Practicality and all that. Lots of papers to process and an amazing number of emails to respond to. Knowing Neville, you know how he'd hate it if any of his fans didn't receive some sort of acknowledgement. It's a job I don't mind undertaking. I'm still the webmaster for his site, after all." He looked to Stephen, clapped a forepaw over the bull's. "Thank you for filming the ceremony. Posting it allowed me to share it with everyone."

"It was too beautiful not to be preserved and shared." The bull squeezed the coyote's forepaw. "And what about you?"

"The high school's got a slot for me to teach web design and such. Neville set up a trust fund for writing scholarships at the college, and the department's asked me to help go through the applications; after my years with Neville, I think I have some idea of what he was looking for in a new writer, so I'll be part of the selection committee. I think I'll get by."

"And what of your heart?" the old lion asked gently.

The coyote considered his tea for a moment. "When he found me, Neville was a few years older than I am now. Most of his thoughts before then was when he would be with Valentín, but then we found us, and... well, you know the story better than most. I don't know how, but maybe the same might happen to me. Neither he nor Valentín want me just to sit around and wait, and neither want me to join them before it's time. So I have more living to do."

"And loving."

"Yes. Love every day of your life, and after that, love even more."

The Right Reverend Quincy and his husband Stephen raised their teacups in salute. "To eternal love," the great lion intoned softly, "in this world and the next."

"To the bright and beautiful souls who enrich our lives," the bull decreed.

"To our stories," the coyote smiled, "and the courage to live them."

Raymond sipped his tea, the ring on his finger winking knowingly in the light of the autumn afternoon.