When I was eighteen, my boyfriend and I made a promise in a concert venue parking lot right after what would be our final show together. That coming August, we were both leaving for colleges in different states. Neither of us spoke it aloud, but we both understood what that meant. Instead, we made a pact: twenty years from then, if we were both single, we would meet right back there—same band, same city, finding each other in the crowd. We meant it with that earnest intensity unique to teenagers, an age when two decades feels like an abstract concept.
By the following spring, we had parted ways. No one had cheated; nobody did anything wrong. The distance simply made it impossible to sustain. I moved forward with my life. I met the man who would become my husband, and together we welcomed a daughter. Then, this past March, my husband passed away.
A few weeks ago, my sixteen-year-old daughter walked into the kitchen to announce that the very same band was playing nearby. She said none of her friends cared for them and asked if I would go with her. After she went upstairs, I sat at the kitchen table for a long time. To be completely honest, I never imagined he would show up. Twenty-one years is a long time, and people forget.
