For the Rest of Our Lives

As I join you at the altar, I'm not nervous. Seeing the smile on your face brings me such an all-encompassing peace that I seem to have forgotten what that word even means.

"Please be seated," the officiant prompts, then continues with a warm welcome for our friends and family. His voice is even and confident despite the heightened emotions. He instructs everyone to take their one allotted ceremony selfie before turning off and storing all devices, which causes exactly the giggly commotion we had hoped for. After everyone is settled back in, we each spare one more glance at him to confirm that we are indeed ready.

For months I'd been silently reading the ceremony you wrote, imagining what it would feel like to hear them spoken in this beautiful space. How would the sound reverberate between the vaulted ceiling and the wall of glass? How might the sunshine light your face? If the day turned out to be a rainy one, would we hear rolling thunder interrupting the steady drone of rain on the metal roof?

Right now I can tell I won't leave here with any of these answers, save for the sunshine on your face–that's the one external element that broke through this little 4-foot bubble where nothing outside of you, me, and our officiant exists. It brings out the blond in your beard, lights up your caramel irises, and casts a shadow of your lashes onto your cheeks.

He talks about us; how we met, how we've grown, and the values of marriage that we hold dear. He guides us through the vows we wrote together, promising respect, companionship, partnership in strife and stride, and to maintain our love up to and into the final rest. You take my left hand in yours and we place each other's rings with surprising grace.

A cello's deep, warm chord crescendos beneath a whimsical guitar melody. Our mothers stand from their seats and come to the altar, taking the ceremonial garments from their respective childrens' shoulders. As my shawl is taken, I feel the history that it leaves behind like ink stamped onto my heart–each stitch is a day in which I was primarily "Daughter," and its warmth is the love, support, and protection of my family.  My shawl and your stole are replaced by a woven blanket that we're wrapped in together, symbolizing the shift of familial responsibility onto the two of us. Your mother passes me a corner of the blanket to hold onto, and my mother passes one to you, so that we are holding each other close. This ceremony has primed the word "family" for redefinition so that you and I are the first sprout of a brand new tree.

The years of love between us is the soil; the outpouring of love surrounding us is gentle rain.

The officiant's decree is the parting of rain clouds, so that the sunshine of our shared joy can beam through.

"By the power vested in me, with the sense of incomparable joy that you have found emotional sanctuary for your heart, and that you have discovered your life’s true love, I now pronounce you husband and wife."

Between one heartbeat and the next, the remaining distance between us is closed and the seed-coat over our future splits open. For the first time in hours my smile drops, but only because I cannot smile and kiss my husband at the same time.

Over the coming days and weeks people will tell us how beautiful our wedding was; they'll tell us that unexpected tears were shed or that the music framed the ceremony just right. For my part, I'll just take their word for it, because in this moment all I can see–all I want to see–is the joy on your face as you pull me close, just before my eyes close and I focus entirely on feeling the kiss: 

In the beginning, there is pressure. Two silken pillows interlock with my own matching set, minuscule and pink and pressed between us, an innate ritual that explores what it means to hold someone completely. 

Then, there is movement. Our lips push and pull together like the ebb and flow of a delicate dance to a silent song. Synchronized heartbeats direct the tempo, and we are holding each other in adagio.

Finally, there is an ever-so-quiet pop of absence when our lips separate to let us both smile again. We rest our foreheads together, which feels more like the second half of the kiss rather than two separate acts of intimacy. I let the blanket slip from my fingertips as your best man takes it from our shoulders. We squeeze our newly-ringed hands together before I turn to reclaim my bouquet, lacing the fingers of my left hand into your right.

I can't wait to kiss you again.

Thankfully, the yearning is mutual; halfway up the aisle you pause, turning me toward you before leaning us both into a gentle dip and chasing my mouth with your own. I remember when I told you we would need to practice this. Neither of us was bothered whatsoever by the prospect of perfecting a myriad of romantic kisses so that we could be prepared for whatever pose felt right in the moment. 

There won't be any video recording of this. We didn't want to risk introducing some imperfection of reality into a moment that was perfect to us. There would be too much temptation for my mind to find some flaw outside of our experience and ruminate on it until it took over the memory. 

Instead, to memorialize and bask in the moment that we, as husband and wife, shared this first kiss, I will write about it. Again and again, I will find reasons to delve into my imagination and relive it. I will write songs, poetry, and prose to put my mind here again. Some might be shared with strangers, some might be whispered to our grandchildren, and many more will belong solely to you and I. 

I am looking forward to every single word.