Prologue:

This book is for Sam. I told myself at first that it was just a history book or a family genealogy, but it isn't. It's about Sam, and for Sam. Everything I do is for him, because he is everything to me. I don't know if anyone will read this. It'll probably sit on some library shelf in some obscure corner of the island. But I can't leave this world without trying to pay some sort of tribute to the best friend I have ever had. And I am leaving. I'm dying. I can feel it day by day. I think tomorrow, perhaps in the evening…and the idea doesn't fill me with revulsion or with yearning anymore. I'm simply at peace with it. I don't want to leave Sam again, that's the only thing. I've already left him once–left him in Middle Earth with his wife and babies, and I sailed away and came to live here on the Lonely Isle, and it took him sixty years to follow. I'm sorry to be going ahead again. But honestly, we're both surprised that I've lived as long as I have. Some hurts don't heal with time, or even with Sam's extravagant love. I love him back, you know. He's my sun and stars and he keeps my heart beating. He has such a light about him–a clear light, Gandalf used to say. Ahh, I've gotten off track again. You're here for the story, not to hear me gush about Sam. But I just…love him more than I could ever express. Anyways. The story is contained in the next hundred or so pages. It's very long. Sam is calling for me to come to bed, and if I keep writing he'll come and stand beside my desk and rub my back until I finish, so I suppose this is the end. Enjoy the story. I enjoyed living it.

F. B.