| | Bethany is married.
The images whirl impressionistically, refusing to be ordered in their linear rows and columns and instead breaking out at odd moments, memories with dancy feet. I see the girls whirling madly on the dance floor in their perfect dresses, the splash of yellow that was the leaving bride, the stained glass and wood of the cozy country church. I see the cello player's rehearsed smiles, hear the bridesmaids making cheeky jokes, feel my finger as it presses the shutter over and over, hoping to capture that most magic moment when the groom saw the bride for the first time.
Big moments always bring their fair share of incongruities, and so we found ourselves in a tornado of a hotel room as the decked-out bride waded across a sea of curlers, socks, drink bottles, and a host of other detritus, like a princess visiting her subjects in the slum. So, too, we found ourselves conspiring to find a tactful way to accomplish the removal of three orange windcatchers and two neon-bright banners from an otherwise perfectly old-fashioned church building.
Intermingled were moments of genuine emotion, splashing impolitely through the sea of calm we each tried to project. I do not think I will ever forget the tear-filled eyes of the otherwise stalwart mother of the bride as she watched her husband and daughter glide across the dance floor. Common tears? Perhaps. But far from banal. I will remember, too, the day after the wedding as she hosted the lingering members of the wedding party. A short comment-almost a throwaway-clipped in its emotion, assuring us that she was glad we had stayed because it made it easier for her to have company. That was her one, her only, reference to the grief that had birthed her tears and would doubtless bear more once the guests had left and all was quiet again.
Present, too, are memories of little loving moments, breadcrumbs left on the road for weary travelers. The groom's face as the bride wordlessly touched his arm during the rehearsal dinner, the best man talking gently to his young fiance who was nervous and did not know anyone, and the bridesmaids, five-year friends, sharing sips of wine and tired smiles as the reception wound down. Tiny moments full of meaning.
And what of the moments we wished would never end? Watching the photographer's beautiful pictures flit by on the computer screen, standing together with our hair a little less done and dresses beginning to wrinkle. Feeling drops of water dampen our shirts and hair as we watched the falls rush down their jagged gorge. Napping together, exhausted in front of a hotel tv, together in satisfied weariness.
We cannot hold on to moments, whether ecstatic or bittersweet, for they are best viewed as snapshots. If we try to grasp them too greedily, they pop like the transient bubbles we blew as the bride and groom bid us goodbye.
Bethany, an impossibly beautiful slip of a bride, could not stop bemaoning her hair's tendency to lose the curls she had painstakingly pressed into it. Don't worry, Bethany. Some curls were never meant to last. Some were meant to live only for a moment, as part of the impressionist masterpieces of memory.
These fleeting impressions are the moments we call wedding, the colors we call married, and the feelings we call love.
|
| | Posted 6/30/2009 3:56 PM - 12 Views - 4 eProps - 2 comments
- recommend
  - recs1
- share
- email
 - sent0
|
