You waited in line for hours and you did not even complain. When we were us, waiting was the worst thing in the whole world. Waiting for the bus. Waiting for the grown-ups to finish talking. But you stood in the sun in that field and you smiled and you talked to strangers.
Then the music started and you did the thing. You jumped. Both feet off the ground, arms up, hair everywhere, screaming words you knew by heart. Nobody was watching you and you did not care. I thought you stopped doing that. I saw you at the wedding last year, standing near the wall, holding a drink so your hands had a job.
But here you are in the dirt with forty thousand people and you are jumping.
You have grass stains on your knees. Your feet hurt and you kept going anyway. You cried a little bit during the slow song and you let the person next to you see. Somebody handed you a bottle of water and you said thank you like they had saved your life.
I made you promise once, on the top bunk, that we would never turn boring. I did not really know what boring meant. I just meant that we would still feel things this big.
You kept it. Look at you.
You still know all the words.