Our tickets placed us in a familiar location. Fifteen years earlier I sat in the same section of this same venue, maybe even the same row, for one of my first concerts. From these seats, my brother and I got our first glimpse of one of our favorite bands. When they dominated radio and nu-metal was nothing to be ashamed of.

We’d watched the singer and the rest of the band spin and ricochet off each other for hours. The singer was singing the words I knew, the words that escaped my mouth without thought, the words that were as natural to me as breathing. More natural, because I gladly sacrificed my breath to breathe them. But he was there. His hair was there, his skin, his sweat, his mouth, his face.

They were small, and not due to the distance. We sat close enough to see sweat and saliva and muscle; elevated enough to see everything at once, no one person blocking anyone else. Small in a different way. I’d expected them to crush the amps under their feet, to tower over the stage lighting. But they were small like people. Small like my dad would be if he were onstage. Small like my Algebra teacher or any of the cashiers at the grocery store. They covered the stage in a few quick steps but were none the bigger for it.

Again, this night, I was struck by their shocking smallness as the band took the stage.

Emily began to cry.

I felt vindicated.