There are paper whites in a shallow dish on my table. In contrast to thirty inches of stems, leaves and flowers, the container is three and a half max. The bulbs are so eager they are popping out of the bed of stones, thrusting the green ribbons into the sky like a gymnast with two spry girls in tights on his shoulders. 

The scent for which they are famous pervades the room without even trying, each bunch of blooms like a bridal bouquet. A few days ago they were having trouble standing, so my twins poked a dowel in beside them, and tied them with a gold ribbon for support. I add water every few days. 

Paper whites remind me of the young couple I saw last week, so effervescent in their adoration that they sat with arms wrapped around one another. I took the hint and reached for John's aging hand. He welcomed the gesture, however uncharacteristic.  

Outside my window stands an oak tree. The leaves are in their last throes of color, dancing in the wind before they can no longer hang on. The trunk will hunker down for the winter, so broad at the base I cannot reach my arms around to touch fingertip to fingertip. Even in January, it will hold guard above my roof, the roots embedded into the frozen ground. I heard once that roots dig as deeply into the soil as the branches reach into the sky, though I have no proof. They are invisible to me. 

My marriage is less like those paper whites, and more like an oak tree in November. Our sweetness does not fill a room. We are in no way a centerpiece item. 

But I feel confident that even if I cannot see them our roots will hold firm through the snow.