The Golden Hour

golden_hour

“It’s the golden hour.”
That’s what they said as the low, light slipped into the banquet room. They leaned in when they said it and made picture frames with their hands and held it up to their eyes. They laughed big and careless, like people who loved well and I was glad to know them all.

I hope I’ll get to celebrate like they did. With off-white bulbs hanging from the ceiling and uncles and grandmas, cousins and old roommates dancing underneath.

I want to believe in love, but I’m not so sure. Most of the time, I seem to be one step behind them like I don’t know the moves to a grand song playing in everyone’s ears except mine.

I suppose that’s how we all feel with regards to something that makes us doubt and question and second-guess and falter. So when they raised their glasses, I raised mine too, though I’m certain I’ll never know like they seem to.

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