So I went to Florida and I gave the commencement speech at my best friend’s son’s (Luke, that’s him to the right) high school graduation. I put on a gown and marched in a procession and stood at a podium and spoke about glorious dreams and foolish detours and how long it takes us to know our own hearts and how brave we have to be to know the hearts of others. And then I marched back out and went to the gymnasium for a reception.
I shook people’s hands. I drank a glass of fruit punch.
Luke, huge, hulking, came and stood beside me. He put his hand on my shoulder. I remembered what it was like to hold him when he was a baby, how he felt like a sun-warmed stone in my arms.
The gym was filled, suddenly, with the most tremendous light.
“My heart,” I wanted to say to him, “my heart!”
Someone propped open the doors. A breeze blew in. A boy with no front teeth gave me a sugar cookie. I shook the hand of a retired minister named Ted. Luke disappeared.
I thought: my heart!
I thought: where did all this light come from?
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