A year ago I walked toward Luke with a lump in my throat. I was laughing, but not; crying, but not; biting my bottom lip so that nothing crazy would come out of my mouth. My father was helping me walk toward Luke's beaming face. He seemed sturdy and constant and I wanted to burst to pieces.
5 months before that, Luke walked me through the woods, collecting leaves and proclaiming the beauty of that last autumn day. He had a burning lump in the pocket of his jeans, a ring, waiting for his future wife. As we stood by a pond in the fading sunlight, he put it on my finger, shaking and grinning and crying.