It was you and me against the world.
Just now, walking in from my car underneath a giant Sycamore tree with bare pale branches stretched like bone china to the sky, I realized that the only time I cried this weekend was when the doors opened and my twin and my dad walked inside the chapel, down the aisle. The sun was coming in behind them. I stood up there at the alter, my feet falling asleep at the bottom of my red heels, and I looked at the outline of a beautiful Amy and her sheer, undulating veil.
It was then that I noticed the small, small shadow that comes at the weddings of your siblings. You have to look carefully, past the tulle and the cake and the brightly colored guests to see it. Once you do, you see it, the shadow which indicates that you're sort of watching a little girl disappear -- the little girl with gaps in her teeth who sat next to you on the school bus and rode bikes with you through the neighborhood. The further she gets down the aisle, the more faint the image of that little girl becomes. Marriage takes her away, in a way. And while it's beautiful -- getting to stir up the colorful dust that is you and create something new (a married woman! a maybe mother! a life partner!), those of us who knew that little, gap-toothed girl can't help but feel a tinge of loss.
Life moves in waves, and this is just one of them. A crest, even. We smile and roll on.
Sunday morning, my stomach full of leftover wedding cake (I lost count of exactly how many pieces I ate) and my face full of leftover mascara, I fell asleep against Nick as we drove back to Columbus. (Don't worry, he was driving and awake.) My face was in his jacket, which smelled like winter and spring at the same time, and as I drifted off to sleep I listened to him sing along with the radio. ...I'm a lover, And I'm a sinner. I play my music in the sun...
A funny thing happened. At that moment, I felt that I, too, was starting to drift toward that aisle and away from the little gap-toothed girl I once was. At least, that's how it felt in the sunny front seat of the car.
It was then that I noticed the small, small shadow that comes at the weddings of your siblings. You have to look carefully, past the tulle and the cake and the brightly colored guests to see it. Once you do, you see it, the shadow which indicates that you're sort of watching a little girl disappear -- the little girl with gaps in her teeth who sat next to you on the school bus and rode bikes with you through the neighborhood. The further she gets down the aisle, the more faint the image of that little girl becomes. Marriage takes her away, in a way. And while it's beautiful -- getting to stir up the colorful dust that is you and create something new (a married woman! a maybe mother! a life partner!), those of us who knew that little, gap-toothed girl can't help but feel a tinge of loss.
Life moves in waves, and this is just one of them. A crest, even. We smile and roll on.
Sunday morning, my stomach full of leftover wedding cake (I lost count of exactly how many pieces I ate) and my face full of leftover mascara, I fell asleep against Nick as we drove back to Columbus. (Don't worry, he was driving and awake.) My face was in his jacket, which smelled like winter and spring at the same time, and as I drifted off to sleep I listened to him sing along with the radio. ...I'm a lover, And I'm a sinner. I play my music in the sun...
A funny thing happened. At that moment, I felt that I, too, was starting to drift toward that aisle and away from the little gap-toothed girl I once was. At least, that's how it felt in the sunny front seat of the car.