I remember the first poem you wrote in Sindarin. You were twelve and our lessons in that noble tongue were progressing nicely, with me teaching you what I had learned from Bilbo. I had given you my Elvish primer that Bilbo had written out for me and you spent some time with it each afternoon after your chores were done and Bilbo taught you your letters in Westron. I always admired how very neat and careful you were in copying the script. You confided that you had told your mum you were learning and that she supported you, even if she couldn’t understand why it fascinated you so much. But I was glad that it did, because it allowed us time together that we wouldn’t have otherwise and a piece of our hearts that we gave to no one else but Bilbo. You were very shy when you presented that poem and I knew you had worked very hard on it, even if it was only “nonsense dressed up in pretty words” as you put it, not certain it was any good at all. It was simple, but it had a beauty hinted in it that if you kept at it, I knew you would be a very great poet. When I told you that, you could have outshone the sun and hugged me so tight that I could barely breathe and thanked me over and over again. I hugged you back and said if you really wanted to read some nonsense, then you should read the first poem I had written. When I showed it to you, you giggled, then covered your mouth with both hands and blushed bright red, horrified that you had “made fun of your better” as your Gaffer would say. But, Sam, oh my dearest, most beloved Sam, I was never your better. An equal at the least and during the Quest and now afterwards, you are most definitely my better. I laughed with you that day and that gave you the freedom to laugh harder. You had and have the most beautiful laugh. Your poetry definitely improved as you recited that long one about the troll - and you hadn’t even wanted to take credit for it! You were beside me with Bilbo in Rivendell as we learned more about Sindarin and if we had stayed, I’m sure you would have become fluent in it. I’m sorry we had not more time there. But you learned your lessons well, my Sam, so very well.

I remember how many days and nights on our long Road when you used your talent for poetry well. It would appear that there was only you and me, but there was always another. Always inside me was that other voice, tempting, taunting, tormenting me. I could not escape it. It was in every thought and followed me even into sleep where nightmares exhausted me and there was no rest for me. Except when you held me and sang to me in Sindarin. I wish I could remember the exact words, maybe they are still stored in the heart we share, but right now all I can remember is what a balm those words were to me and how much it hated them. It tried to overwhelm it with its own clamor but you always sang on. I don’t think you could have heard it, so you wouldn’t know what power you had over it, but as you continued, it silenced, fleeing your voice. I listened to your soft, beautiful voice all the more, and those words, just the sound of them, were a wonderful refuge and escape for me, the only place I could rest, the only time I could most clearly sense another presence also, the one I had sensed at the Council. It was always with me, but most times I couldn’t feel it. He could though and he hated it and did his best to overwhelm it with his own noise, just as he tried to scream louder than your soft murmurs. But he is gone now and you are still with me and I can hear that other voice much clearer as well.

I remember one day after we had returned home and you and Rose had come to stay. I was napping through afternoon tea because I had stayed up far too late the night before. You sat by me while I slept and my last vision of you before I closed my eyes was you pulling out your paper to write some more. My last thought was looking forward to reading whatever you had in your fertile, loving mind. I woke to find that you had placed your latest masterpiece in my hand. I had felt your soft kiss when you had risen from my side, but I hadn’t roused enough to wake. Curious, I read your poem. It was about the light you saw in me and it moved me to tears, but Sam, oh, my Sam, if there is any light in me, it’s a reflection of yours. I penned a long poem myself right then, to you, to your light, and I am going to leave it for you to find after I go, for you must know what you mean to me, when I can no longer show you every day.

I cannot believe I am leaving at all, that it has come to this, but it has, and if I truly have anything inside me but this emptiness that is devouring me, I hope to find it where I am going and you need to know why I am leaving. When you came to me that evening to call me for dinner, I put my poem away, hugged and kissed you as I thanked you for your poem and told you how much I loved it and how much I loved you. You smiled so beautifully for me, then held me tight and kissed my brow and murmured how much you loved me as well. I wish I could have stood there forever, just like that. But soon I must take a Road that has no returning. Still I hope that I am only ahead of you on it and not truly sundered from you for I would not have the strength to leave otherwise. I know you will follow when the time is right and I will bide my time, hoping it will pass as effortlessly and unnoticed as it does in the Elven lands. I could not bear the weight of it otherwise, for I know it will be a long while. Still there is nothing for it as you would say. We will both take our Roads, but as Bilbo says, there is truly only one and though our paths soon diverge, there will wind around again and we will walk once more under the sunshine.

You looked at me a little quizzically when you let me go, as though you could see the starlight on the Western Sea reflected in my eyes, and I feared that I had given my secret away. But then you smiled and kissed me again and after a final squeeze, let me go. I have no doubt that I am leaving the writing of the ending of the book in the very best of hands. I am so blessed, my Sam, my own light, I am so very, very blessed.

I remember how you continued to sing to me when the returning memories grew too dark. I remain stumbling around, trying to find my way out. I know that way is West, but until I have to leave, I will continue to hold onto your hand and let you lead me. You sing to me in Westron now and I am grateful, though I don’t tell you why. Soon that tongue won’t be much heard and I don’t want to forget what it sounds like. I don’t want to forget who I am or at least who I was.

I love you, my Sam, far more than I could ever tell you. I will write of it and sing of it though.

I am going to hold onto all these loving gifts you have given me, and those Merry and Pippin have as well, lo these many years, and take them where I am going, where I can pull each out at need. Then, my own heart, when we see each other again, I can show you my poems and sing you my songs and tell you everything that has happened and you can tell me, and we will have so many more memories we can share and make, and sing and write about.