the laurels on which we rest; the shoulders on which we stand

If I had to put it into words, I would say
It was the hole in her shirt
When we stood there, uncomfortable
All in our sweat-soaked best,
Exchanging nervous pleasantries and
A grief for something dying.
(Maybe for the others there was
The joy of something new.
I don't know. I didn't feel it.)
The anxious hovering in the background,
The way he couldn't walk too fast,
And that moment, while
Trying to chop fruit,
When sweat changed to tears.
But they basically looked the same,
And it didn't matter that much.
It was a crescendo in the expression;
It was a day like any other.