I’m not sure what happened, really.

All I could see was her.

Other people were there, of course. She told me to look at them, but I could only glance sideways and down, without making eye contact with anyone.

All I could see was her.

Later, these same people stood up to speak. And then, I did look at them, watching them fight and lose to their tears as they talked about her.

And me.

All my life I’ve tried to be a catalyst between dark and light. Sometimes for strangers, sometimes for those close to me. Sometimes through music, sometimes through words, sometimes through random acts of love that I hoped would someday return to me, but had long since forgotten actually might.

Until tonight.

Tonight, my friends and family finally had a reason to circle back and surround me with everything I’d given. They showed up to witness a sacred rite of passage, one I was experiencing for the first time, decades after most of them already had. For a few, twice. 

And afterward, I listened.

They told stories of watching me balance buckets of hope and patience as I navigated a path less taken. Of seeing me use my heart as a compass. Of knowing how long I’d waited to be a father and a husband. 

All these things, I had no idea they’d even noticed.

And this is how what I’d given was returned, in these words usually reserved for funerals, delivered more for the sender than the departed.

Words we should be telling each other now.

The moon rose over the back hill, full enough to cast a soft light across the small ranch. I stood with her, trying to understand how this had all come to be.

I’m not sure what happened, really.

All I could see was her.