“Which one’s yours?” he asked me.
I pointed. “Blue shirt. Next to the guitar.”
He looked. “Ah. He playing something?”
“I think so. He won’t tell me what.”
“Teenagers,” he said, and laughed. “My girl’s reading a poem. She made me promise not to cry.” He held up a pack of tissues from his jacket pocket. “I came prepared.”
I laughed too, a little. Then he said, kindly, just making conversation, “Dad couldn’t make it?”
I felt the question land in my chest.
“He passed away,” I said. “Three years ago.”
The man’s face fell. “Oh. Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t…”
“It’s okay. You didn’t know.”
He was quiet for a second. Then he did a very simple thing. He reached over and squeezed my hand, just once, quick and awkward, the way you might squeeze a stranger’s hand at a funeral. And then he let go and looked back at the stage and didn’t say anything else.
