winter wedding

People marry. More often than not, actually. And remarry. And think about marrying. (Though I know a number who would not include themselves in this group.) And then eventually, they go ahead and do it. Tie the knot. Lives linked. Voila! This is my husband. Not boyfriend anymore. This is my wife. We are privileged, legally privileged to care for each other. You are!

When I see a wedding, I think that this is so precious – this celebrated vision of toddling along in life next to your loved one.

Where there are weddings, there are, of course, rituals and traditions.

But sometimes, not so many.

Take the wedding I attended this morning. I learned of it recently. Very recently.
Hey, we’re getting married!
At last! When?!
Two weeks maybe... If we can get a date.

They got a date. For today.

When a wedding is terrifically modest and simple, it is no less enchanting. A knot is a knot. And the small things – a hand movement, a touch on the shoulder – are noticed. Appreciated.


And then onto the important eating. My Polish blood boils enough in my veins that I think of weddings as great eating opportunities.


















And then it is over. But not really. We stay and we talk grandiose talk of dreams and goals and projects and it seems to me that there's worth in these kinds of statements, because if you say something out loud, it sounds more serious and therefore likely to really take sprout. Someday.

She smiles, he smiles, and then we are not part of their smiles anymore because at a wedding, at some point you have to allow the just marrieds to take off. To their married life. As it should be.