Write with Kare

8 gather for a Decatur wedding: 6 friends, an officiant, and me.

The air is cool enough for me to consider pulling the light cardigan out of my bag, but I like my outfit too much. Athleisure in earth tones, a longline maroon sports bra that extends just above my belly button and high waisted leggings create the semblance of an hourglass figure. I opt to sit in the patch of sunlight warming Decatur square, between the gazebo and the courthouse and my heart glows because I love the architecture. 

I’m lying with my tablet in my hands and my belly pressed into the ground. In my periphery, a dapper young couple stands giddy and waiting. The woman holds a simple bouquet of fresh flowers. Her face explodes into a smile each time she meets the eye of the man she’s standing by. Her dress is white, A-line, knee length, and worn under a trench coat. Her beau wears a blue suit. I try to keep reading. Soon they are joined by another pair. Two men. A couple? Perhaps. One is finely dressed in a navy blue suit and the other tried his best. Ah. A wedding.

I am pulled into the memory of my wedding. I, too, was giddy among strangers. Real life whizzed by me, while the excitement between us created this orbit where time was suspended and only joy resided. That, and everyone was masked and doing their damnedest to give us at least six feet. It was May 2020. 

We couldn’t wait to find out whether or not the world would end. We needed to be married. I wore a casual white dress that I ordered online. Our wedding bands were an online purchase as well. Boston City Hall and Cambridge and all of the surrounding urban city halls were closed. Scott, my husband to be, went to Amherst College back in the day. He suggested that one of the rural one road towns in Western Massachusetts might still be open. We did our paperwork in Shutesbury on a picnic bench outside of the courthouse, which was more of a general municipal building, and had our ceremony in Wendell at a judge’s quaint storybook cottage.

When my mind returns to the present, I see that the Decatur wedding has become a party of six. Everyone is wearing what could be considered Sunday’s finest except the one guy in his polo shirt and slacks that look like basketball warm ups. They greet each other; sling handshakes, hugs, and you look beautifuls. I can see in the body language that they are all waiting for one more attendee.

Scott and I waited in line at the grocery store, on our wedding day. In 2020, businesses that were deemed essential could only admit a few people at a time. A barely old enough to work bouncer wearing his grocery store apron let us in one at a time. When Scott and I realized we won’t be admitted together, we formulated a plan to grab only what we need and meet back at the spice aisle. Aaaaw the spice aisle, we gush in sacrine unison. It’s where we first met. I searched for my bouquet in the floral department. Scott wandered off on his own. He hoped to find a tripod, though he doubts he’ll be successful. Stores with tripods were none essential in Massachusetts. When we rendezvous, he has a roll of tape and a potato masher and is holding them up like American Gothic. He knows he is impressing me when he demonstrates how he’s going to turn these items into a stand so he can film the wedding from his phone.

I was pleased to note that my husband-to-be is resourceful.

The seventh guest arrives. She is not one of them. She is a medium height Black woman in slacks, loafers, and a massive tan camel hat. The hat is tilted skyward and the brim frames her jet black pompadour. Her demeanor is solemn. When they see her, they greet her gratefully and formally. Actually, they all acknowledge her, but the groom is the one who greets her. The two have clearly spoken before. She must be the officiant.

Scott called the judge, our officiant and made the arrangements. He selected a passage from Toni Morrison’s “Home” for the judge to read at the altar. It was the most beautiful gesture, as Toni is my favorite author. I was pleased to note that my betrothed is thoughtful and prone to romantic gestures.

The groom, one arm entangled with his bride’s, uses his free arm to guide his guests to the gazebo. I note that in the gazebo, they are in shadow and whatever pictures they plan to take won’t come out very well. I keep reading: Tomi Adeyemi’s second book. The first one inspired the name I chose for my daughter. Where the energy of the party was so electric, it reverberated beyond their tiny circle, things now shrink to an insular focus. I am expelled from the intimacy of the ceremony, and this time I read for real. 

We approached the officiant’s cottage in our gray Prius. Chipmunks threaded their way above and below the earth’s surface in a rhythm like ocean waves. There were wild flowers, daffodils, a tree lined walk that served as the aisle. I slow marched through the pea stone gravel, the way I’d practiced many times over in my childhood.

When our wedding was over, we ached to share our joy. We drove around visiting some of Scott’s friends from college, the ones who still lived in Western Mass. We stood in their lawns and did not hug. I’d never met any of them. He introduced me. One friend offered to take our photos in front of his cherry tree with his fancy new iPhone. It was in bloom. His photos are our official wedding photos.

The Decatur wedding party is moving, their energy dissipating and expanding. They’re going to need a photographer, I think, feeling a bit wise and omniscient. I’m watching, alert like a dog, and itching to be asked. They begin to spread out, inching away from each other and swiveling their heads ineffectually. The bride and I make eye contact and before she even asks I say “I’ll do it,” with arms outstretched like give it here. I pack my bookbag, quickly and swing it onto my back. When I make it to the wedding party, they’re all still scrambling and taken aback by the beautiful earth toned stranger. (too much?)

I take a few photos in the gazebo, though I’m sure they will bring disappointment upon review. And I, unfamiliar with this model of phone, hope that my guests aren’t being polite and that I have been given the best camera. Once I’ve taken a few conciliatory photographs I suggest another location with more light. Someone says, “maybe in front of these flowers,” a statement which I reject, because they’re petunias. THey’re less than a foot off the ground. They won’t show up in the photo. I can feel myself getting bossy, perhaps I’m taking my unpaid gig too seriously. Someone else suggests the courthouse steps. Good answer.

I take several photos, all the while regaling them with the story of my wedding, though no one is listening. And I know no one is listening, and they shouldn’t be. It’s not my day, but I can’t help myself. I just want to hear my story. When I am satisfied, I return the phone to the groom and say goodbye. Things were too intimate for me to simply return to my book and my existence as a stranger. I need to disappear, revel in the memory of my perfect wedding, and go home.