I didn't know he was the love of my life until he was dying and it was clear there were no more tomorrows.

For over 20 years he and I had been good friends, companions in easy times and hard, sharing a love of music and airplanes and 2-way radios, not to mention all things Scottish. It wasn't that we had so much fun together, it just was so easy to be together.

We'd spend the day together and then talk about it on the phone. Our conversations would range all over the map and we shared so many viewpoints we'd forget who said what.

It wasn't the kind of love relationship I've had so often, where I'd acquire interests to keep him company. Or I'd modify opinions just to stay in synch. There was a genuine meeting of the minds.

He was courageous in the face of terrible illness. He was funny and smart and imaginative. He read voraciously and widely.

Our relationship never went any further than friendship, partly because being friends was the most important part of who we were and partly because when he was wasn't married I was, and when I wasn't married he was.

There are so many things I still want to share. Like the free concerts in the park (Preservation Hall Jazz Band this week) and long talks on the phone about stuff. Just stuff.

We spent every New Year's Eve together with our current spouses and one or two dearest friends. We'd barbecue salmon (and freeze our tushies off) and go down to the dairy (another friend worked there) and sing Auld Lang Syne with fiddle and harmonica.

When he died, I asked for a picture of him from his album and a copy of his answering machine greeting. It was quintessential Chuck.

Over and over he knew he should quit smoking. He tried but never succeeded. NO ONE should die that way. It crept up his body and ate him alive.

I sill miss him more than I can say. I don't regret that we never got together. I regret that our time together was cut short. Maybe some day, in another life, maybe we'll pick up where we left off. Oh, Chuck.