At my son's wedding, the best man lost his voice the night before. Too much bourbon and nerves. The groom's mother—my ex-wife—looked right at me. 'You're up.'
I stood there, sixty-seven years old, in a rented jacket that didn't quite fit, holding a glass of champagne that cost more than my weekly grocery run.
The name tent card from last year's hotel conference was still in my coat pocket from when I'd used it as a bookmark. 'Night Auditor, Oak Creek Lodge.' Two hundred miles from where I sleep now.
No one mentioned the anniversary. Our twenty-ninth would have been three weeks ago. Not a word. Just a polite silence at the dinner table when the subject of long marriages came up.
I told the room: 'Don't take the small things for granted. The way she leaves the coffee on too long. The way he hums in the shower.' My voice cracked. 'Because one day that hum will be the only sound you want to hear.'
My son squeezed his bride's hand. My ex-wife reached for her water glass. I sat down and realized I meant every word, especially the ones I couldn't say to her anymore.