As expected, it's been an insanely exhausting weekend.

Yesterday morning the alarm went off at 3 a.m., and we began our long trek: a 4:15 bus to Boston, a 7 a.m. bus to NYC, then straight to Brooklyn, a quick meal, and then two and a half hours standing in the blocked-off street beside Commonwealth Bar talking to people I hadn't seen for 40 years, or had never met before, or had seen but under wonky circumstances, or had just seen a couple of months ago when I was in New York, or talked to all of the time every chance I could get, or were my own beloveds . . . and this was punctuated by a bagpiper playing "Amazing Grace," and Ray's impeccable playlists unrolling from the speakers, and a bright blue sky, and sudden gusts of tears . . .

Afterward our posse gathered--Tom and I, both boys and their partners--and trudged the long blocks to Paul's apartment, where we sat together and mulled things over as Paul whipped up chili and cornbread and salad; we wondered what we might do all evening . . .

And then my phone buzzed and it was Steve, Ray's husband, asking us to meet him at his apartment, so our posse said yes and rode the train to Gowanus, and when we arrived, we realized that this wasn't the larger, multitudinous gathering we'd pictured but the apartment was full of Steve's family and Ray's family and two lone guys from foreign lands, and now us, which was the most touching thing that had happened to us all day because, as we said afterward, a person can feel like family but the family doesn't necessarily see things that way, nor should they . . .

But there we were, sitting and standing around amidst a shifting collection of brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, everyone's heart on their sleeve, everyone eager to take comfort, ask questions, make jokes, tell the funny stories: it was the sweetest thing, and we were so tired, but so was every person in the room, weary and open-hearted . . .

And now here I am, still so tired, not well slept but sort of slept, lying in my son's living room listening to the traffic on the highway and the subway rumbling underneath the street and the whoop-whoop of a passing cop car, girding myself for the next things: breakfast with the boys and their partners, then splitting away again, back into Manhattan, back onto the bus, the long drive back to Boston, then on to Maine, and our house, and Monday morning glowering ahead of us like a piece of dented sheet metal . . .