How would I have asked him "Why?" What would I have done with the answer? Would it have opened the door to understanding and acceptance, or would it have been just another wedge in what was clearly a lack of communication between us?

His friends approached me, their faces deftly reflecting what his actions had provoked in them, they who also knew firsthand the pain with which he struggled. The platitudes were endless, if not irritating, starting with "It'll be okay," and going downhill from there.

When finally he was brought back up to the bridge rail from where he'd tied his feet to the bungee cords, I felt a wave of relief and not a small tinge of anger that he'd even put me through this. He hadn't hit a pylon or any of the rocks below. He hadn't been repeatedly dipped and drowned in the water or hit by a rogue wave, but how dare he take my heart for yet another roller coaster ride?

He high-fived his buddies, exchanged encouraging hugs with those next in line, and then walked toward me.

He smiled the smile I fell in love with some 20 years ago, the smile I hadn't seen anytime recently. He hesitated, but not like the day he could only slowly tell me he wanted to die. His eyes were wet - with discovery and reawakening. I must admit, so were mine, as I peered into the eyes of the man I had dearly missed, the one who hadn't quite made it back from war.

I asked him sincerely, "Do you feel better?" I really did want to know. His was a fleeting glance at the setting sun as he softly but excitedly confirmed, "Life loves me back."