So much to do, even with so many hands, but such labor was filled with the joy of making it all our own. It was a celebration of who we are and all those that were gathered there.

My mother’s mother to curl my hair, mother-in-law to be painting my face as her husband takes photographs of my reflection in a hotel mirror. Silk flowers, twisted into a circle of blues and whites, bloom in my hair.

We all meet at a simple old house, made into a garden by careful hands filled with the blossoms from the flower market and ribbons gay. I know the words I am to speak. The vows of my promised are a mystery to me. My son carries the rings and a dear child-friend swings a basket of brightness along the aisle ahead of me. I walk forward on cue. There we stand, hand in hand. We offer and except vows. I somehow manage not to weep. The day is brilliant. A raven flies over. There is cheering and I am dizzied. We walk away to sit a while alone. A bench is a lookout over the valley beyond and our lives opening up together.

There was a band of musicians who played swift and clear. Their fancy drew us along and about. There were feet in motion and voices raised. I gave thanks for the words they sang and that which they held silent - a death a dear friend held away from me till the following day.

The first photographs of the day have come back to me. I am beautiful in their pictures. I am not used to seeing myself like that. Perhaps it was part the glory of the day, the love shared and the dear eyes that took them.