Seventeen years ago, sometime around now, the music began to play, and I watched my about to be wife appear from some small hallway and walk down the aisle between two neat organized rows of family and friends. There was music, there were standard vows, but neither stands out in my memory. What does is the look on her face as she walked towards me. Tears of joy and not terror, I hope.
Sure, okay, I remember the flood of emotion and the little stutter and her trying to get the ring on my finger, and a thousand other little details, too, but none of those are the most important part of the day.
She was, and still is.
Looking at the pictures, I think about how young we were, a little over twenty-four in my case and not quite in hers, and how much there was to come, not that we had any idea what we were in for in spite of almost three years engaged and four and a half together.
It was a wonderful day, not that everything went perfectly, but we wouldn’t discover any of the flaws until later. But there is something I could wish for.
No, not for the hair, which I don’t really miss all that much, and I blame the kids for that anyway. And not for the devastatingly handsome porn-stache, which I could grow that again in a month if I really wanted to. Not even for video evidence instead of merely photographic; video would probably show me things that my memory has glossed over.
There are a couple of people in the crowd who are no longer with us, and I’d wish for them back, even if it were just long enough for a hug or a handshake. But what I’d really wish for is that my twenty-four year-old self had the confidence and awareness to be able to understand and express how he felt about the woman he’d just married, but that’s something that only maturity can bring.
Happy anniversary, my love.