This time a year ago I was my daughter’s guest at a recovery barbecue. We made our way there via a South Boston park with harbor views. People were playing what appeared to be a game of “pick up” baseball. A handful of lucky fans sat under the few trees that sported shade. I kept walking through invisible puffs of cigarette smoke. Children were screaming with their mouths entirely full of half eaten hotdogs. It was, you know, quintessential American stuff.

We found the recovery center across the street – in the scrubby back yard of a former church property. Outside an old man with a gold tooth was watering an incredible, and I mean incredible, garden. He smiled at us.

Inside the yard we were handed raffle tickets. Strangers cooked us hamburgers. We drank extremely cold sodas from an overly iced trash can. People made room for us at crowded picnic tables. We ate watermelon and chips from wicker baskets. We listened to top 40 music from speakers slung here and there.

I watched a young man perform a break dance that was skillful and unabashed. He spun with pure joy on a small patch of concrete. His eyes were half closed. My self conscious self had nothing in common with him. At the time I thought it was the dance that enthralled me.

Later this same boy shared his story. His drug use had left him homeless. He had slept under a bridge for a year: through a Boston winter. His life had been saved by another person at the party.  His life had been saved by some guy at the party.

How many of us ever save anything? Maybe we salvage a burning dinner, or retrieve a lost accounts payable receipt. Better yet, we preserve a colleague’s job. Or rescue a stray dog. Those are all great for sure… but not quite the same.

Clearly this was not your typical barbecue.

When the young man won the raffle prize (a long sleeved jersey) he handed it to my daughter. He knew she liked it. Possibly he was trying to impress her, but of that I am not certain. I do know that he most likely owned very little…and he gave it away just to see her smile.

Inside the building we found my daughter’s counselor playing the cello. She had it steadied between her legs, and her tattooed wrist held a delicate, long bow. A young man with the teeth of a meth addict accompanied her on the guitar. The sound of her cello and the sound of his voice broke my heart into a million, billion pieces.

I have been turning this day over in my head for a very long time.