In Selma that day. The photograph. It is the way she is looking at him. Not his name. His pallor. Not the city, nor the event, not even the blood on his neck. When I saw the picture I realized someone cared enough to take it. There was only one lens. Then, the entire world wasn't always watching. She pressed that cloth to his neck as intimate as a kiss whispered into the channel of an ear. Spontaneously. Sudden and overwhelming as a father's embrace after a father's failure to embrace. I was two years old. It was before I knew what I was born into. It would have been illegal for me to have married my husband. My husband stares at the picture, but a man so compassionate cannot easily take in its lack. It takes the violating or the violated to know. You know why Galway was there. Why pretend? The reward of courage is this: my husband told his parents he would marry me. Period. He expected his parents to live up to the values they espoused. They have. If I cry, my blue-eyed father-in-law—whose father left Germany in the nascent rise of Hitler—cries. Galway's eye to Harriet's brown as mine. Look at the way he looks at her. Like a sun rising twice to be Galway that day, looking up in the face of the tender after terror. See, the grace of gratitude. He being there. She being her.