Golden

The three of us decided to spend time together tonight after play practice.

We'd been joking through rehearsal, stealing glances at each other while other things were going on in front of us. Making faces, laughing, spinning ridiculous backstories to connect our characters.

We make each other laugh.

We've all been deeply hurt.

One of us is emotionally stunted.

One of us lost his mother.

One of us lost a spouse.

But together we remember that life isn't always lived in the darkest valleys.

Together we remember that sometimes things are golden.

Color means a lot to me. Light means a lot to me.

My happiest memories are tinged with gold.

Tonight was one of those nights.

We went to the rooftop bar and looked out over the city. We talked for three hours about everything - stuff we dislike, stuff we love, people we remembered, stories we adored, things we want to do. Things we'd like to do together.

She got up and moved away for a moment and he and I shared our losses.

I told him about Stu. He never met Stu, but he would have liked him. Stu would have liked him.

"I love to see you talk about him," my new friend says. "You light up."

I hide that special moment away, down deep, where I can remember it perfectly forever.

We decide to visit the Capitol steps, after six glasses of tea for her and six glasses of water for him. We split and shared our food as we discussed Communion and the differences in the churches we've been in.

We climb the Capitol steps at 2 am and sit high up, my arms crossed, my elbows hanging in the empty space below. We lay down and talk for a while about the play and other plays we've done, songs we've loved.

Then we pulled out a phone and sang along to some of our favorite stories. And then we talked about how these times are the memories college kids need to be making, instead of the wiser choice of going to bed early and skimping on spontaneity.

I thought about that on the way home.

These new friends are alone, for the most part. While a few are dating, their significant others aren't a part of our group, for one reason or another (distance, mostly). We are all struggling - with our faith, with our orientations, with ourselves. We are alone, except when we're together.

We have a shared bond, the community that theater instills. We spend hours together and never tire of laughing. We eat food together, sharing what little we have. We make up things to do so we don't have to say goodnight.

These are the memories I wanted out of college that I rarely got - these wild moments of deep conversation, honest talk, open hearts, fluid thinking. The times that you come away from with a warm feeling because you felt like everyone was just themselves, and that was enough. Accepted, perhaps even loved.

She says, "I love you" when I tell them goodnight. I say it back to her, and I mean it.

Some of them knew Stu. They know how hard November 1 is going to be for me. And they have asked if they could spend a part of it with me. I said yes.

Because I've been honest with them. They know the real me. And they didn't bat an eyelash. They just accepted me. They understand.

I love all my friends. But these new ones have seen the deepest parts of me, right up close. All those years ago, I didn't trust anyone enough to let one sentence slip out. My older friends aren't privy to a lot of what has happened to me.

I feel like I'm getting a second chance.

A way to redeem the time spent here.

Golden moments I will treasure forever.

Times when I knew that the people around me wanted to spend time with me, that I mattered, and that I was accepted.

It is a very golden night.