The Seabus is a large, industrious ferry, and not what I expected. No wind in our faces, no smell of sea air. We are headed to Nate’s 40th high school reunion, and I am both hoping he will find joy at seeing so many old friends, and wondering where I will squirrel myself away to write a tiny memoir of our trip.

It’s a fearsome thing, seeing young pictures on badges and not so young faces above them. I prefer everyone’s current face. Lived in is better than the aimless gaze of youth. And noise. Noise everywhere. People are so pleased to see one another, so leaning in to hear one another. Age’s advantage over youth: the cliques have dissolved and the hurts have mostly been forgotten. Although not by Nate; he still feels unmemorable, unnoticed; not actively disliked but inactively ignored.

I sit, squirreling.

“Hi, who are you?”

“Married to Nate Higgins”

“You just looked so alone, sitting there. I thought maybe you were a journalist.”

I guess I am, if writing journals makes one so.

I’m one of four spouses here. We all have a slightly hunted look. People peer at my badge.

“And you are?”

“Married to Nate Higgins.”

“Ah. Well. It’s nice to meet you.”

Watching my husband find joy in His People gives my heart happiness. Usually he views the world as What Will Next Go Wrong? His Higginsian harrumph does not give me joy, but it does make me smile. Who could not love a man who sees another lose a quarter while pacing at the ferry terminal, who worries away for minutes until he says, abruptly, “I’m going to find that man to give him that quarter.” And returns to tell me “He has scoliosis and wasn’t able to bend down. I think he was a little nonplussed that I thought it important to bring it to him.”

“YOU. PIPE DOWN.”

Aaaaaaagh. My husband, right behind me. He can be loud. And effective. This time he is helping the organizing girls, lined up to give their speeches. “Thank you to . . . . “. “It’s so nice to see so many of you here . . .” “Please remember those who have passed and cannot be . . .”

Many more men than women are here. One of the organizers says “I think the women are all too worried about their looks.” She’s probably right. I know I look at pictures and think Oh My God, Look At Those Fat Arms. But I remind myself that no one else is looking at my fat arms; they’re all looking at their lumpy midsections and lousy hair, none of which I see. I see the radiant smiles and the light in their eyes when they talk about how they met their husbands, the joy their children bring.

Dishes and napkins appear on platters around us, in the light, competent hands of quiet waiters. Smoked salmon and cream cheese and capers on pumpernickel, sliced veg, potstickers, sushi, sashimi, Olives. Oh. Olives with pits. Little odd tasty tartlets. Dishes and napkins unobtrusively disappear.

I, a slightly odd tartlet, squirreled away in a corner, look around; happy with my life, happy with my husband; the one who looks surprised that people like him. Happy.