Her answer was cryptic. At the time, and for years to come, it did not apply to my life. Despite my puzzlement, I held the description in my back of my mind. I carried it with me like a weathered scrap of paper, unfolding it, reading the words, then folding it back up and sliding it into a far off pocket, over and over again. In time, it was memorized. A simple beacon, her words were a small mantra that I repeated to myself, hoping that one day they would feel real. There were rougher times to come. There was great pain—family illness, deaths and near deaths, towers of death. I grew smaller and larger. I hurt and healed. All the while, I waited for the change but it never seemed to come.

Then one day, I stopped waiting. At some point, I stopped repeating her words. And then there was that moment, an early morning run one spring, crossing the Gowanus Canal via Carroll Street, when I felt as though I was sailing through a great beauty. Almost as subtle as it was jarring, my life clicked.

I emailed R to tell her of Lex and my engagement. She called me almost immediately upon receipt, ecstatic. The happiness in her voice matched the swell in my chest, this mix of contentment and pride, of ease and incredible energy. We talked briefly about happiness, about how odd, tiny twists in life could carry such great magnitude. Finally, we got to that conversation from nearly six years before.

Looking out through my office window at Manhattan’s northern cityscape, I nodded as we recounted the words, and for the first time I could say, without any hesitation, I know, R, I know. I know what you mean.