...and as the throng pushes by the windows, I see an old friend being moved along by the crowd. Close by her, I can see—and only I can see—her husband walks at her side as though guiding and protecting her.
Her husband, three months dead now, catches my eye . . . smiles, waves.
They move past a post, out of my field of view for a moment, and when she reappears he is gone.
She moves on alone, but she is not alone.
Without a thought, I leave my wife where she is and go out into the crowd, pushing through the people—pushing against them—until I reach her further up.
Calling to her, I touch her arm and she turns, surprised to see me.
As we hug, I tell her “Dave is with you. I saw him there at your shoulder. You are not alone.”
“I know,” she tells me when she pulls back, joy and sadness braided in silver tracks down her face.