I most remember his rosy cheeks. The humidity and mosquitos hummed around us. We held hands under the shade of widely spaced trees in ferns as tall as our waists beside a beaver pond. There would be many moments I’d attempt to remember from our wedding day – etching them into my memory, writing them down play-by-play in my Spanish journal, and waiting giddily for our photographer to finally send us our photos. But, in those moments between words, I thought about how warm my cheeks felt and how rosy his cheeks were and how it was likely that my cheeks were rosy too.
I was joyful. Some cry when they’re overwhelmed with happiness, but that’s never been me. Happiness spreads across my skin like sinking into a warm swimming hole. The warmth then soaks into my core whereby settling my heart and obscuring all the things that normally zoom through my mind. Happiness is quiet. Contentment. Nothing but his rosy cheeks and my rosy cheeks on our wedding day.
The bright sunlight flickered through the canopy above alighting on my sister, who was our officiant, and our guests. The guests sat amongst the ferns as you might imagine in a scene from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It seemed fitting that the cupcake shelves hanging from a birdfeeder hook and the brightly colored attire of the wedding guests would float across my mind like a scene from a play. As I gazed at the ferns, I realized that this was my midsummer dream. To make official what my partner and I already knew. These moments would give our relationship a label society understood. But despite the label, he and I knew that no one could truly understand what we meant because every relationship is its own unique product of its unique makers.
Which brings me back to his rosy cheeks. He was wearing his finest suit and the fanciest shoes you’ve possibly ever seen. The paisley on his shoes and the paisley on his tie had nothing but their name in common, but they each worked well with the stripes of his suit. His tufty blond hair curled above his sparkling eyes and his cheeks were flushed because we were outside, because we had walked through the forest to get here, and because it was a hot midsummer day.
I thought briefly about our guests, the witnesses to the words we were saying. They were the people who had played the biggest roles in our lives since we became a couple. I listened to the words my sister said, then he said, and then I said. We had all thought about, written down, and practiced what we were going to say. Yet, it seemed more improv than rehearsed lines. How could any of us have imagined exactly how this moment would be? We couldn’t. There’s delight in comfortable spontaneity. As I replay those moments now, the rosiness returns. The memory is one of the clearest definitions I have of joy.