My father was generous with affirmation. He was my personal fan club and his support carried me past childhood insecurity like a linebacker with the ball. Nothing could stop him from cheering for his youngest daughter. 

But it wasn't only me. Today a man in his late sixties told me about a day fifty years ago that still renders him soft. He played the piano, under pressure from his mother to be great. One day he was the background music at a church event and my father came and sat next to him. That was all. Yet for him it felt as if he mattered, like the music he made was just fine the way it was today, not as a prelude to concert performances. 

How precious that this man would remember that brief encounter for half a century, and share it with me. 

I guess marriage is a chance to sit with someone who would otherwise sit alone. I went with John to a barbershop dinner this weekend. The truth is, I don't always go. Barbershop is his hobby, quilting is mine. But this time I did and he thanked me. I was not especially witty at the table, or up to speed when the conversation meandered over to competitions and singing coaches. But that did not seem to matter. John liked that I was next to him. 

Maybe sometimes that is enough.