Weddingbee Blog

Forgive me, hive. A wedding post just would not flow from mind, to fingers, to keyboard today, on this—the holiday of love. What came out was purple prose about my almost-husband. So, I guess I will post it here, a snippet-y homage to my wedding’s raison d’etre.

Oh my love,

When I think of who you are to me—what you mean in my life—there is one memory that stands out. In all the years that we have been together, for all the memories stacked up in the closets of my mind, I find myself lingering on the worst summer of my life.

It was bad, that summer. The internship was bad, the apartment was bad, and I felt afloat. Anchorless. I fretted about my future constantly, I was up before the sun, and I was home long after it set. I was tired all the time, my young soul grieving for idealism. It was a wet summer; do you remember? I’m not proud of how frequently my tears mingled with the falling rain.

That was also the summer I turned 21, the night you and your roommates karaoke-d “Bye, Bye, Bye” for me, complete with the dance moves. I remember feeling free that night, when all my friends from school and home danced till the wee hours, and even when you held the trashcan as I mumbled, “It’s not fair! I didn’t even drink that much!” I know, you said. I know.

That, too, was the summer you stood in line with me for the last Harry Potter book, shaking your head at my childlike glee. When we got home, you poured me a glass of water, kissed me on the top of the head, and went straight to bed. You weren’t even mad when I woke you up at 7AM because I had to tell someone how good it was when I finished.

Somehow, I remember those months as being filled with white wine and Breakfast at Tiffany’s and walking to the movies with you. I remember French food and the back porch and how incredible it was that you created those lovely moments out of thin air. Like magic, you made the mean reds drift away faster than a jewelry store ever could.

On the last day of that summer, I came home to not flowers, but a khaki trench coat. You’d left work early to go buy it. It’s like the one Holly wears at the end of the movie, you said. Right?

All the other girls are looking for a man who buys flowers. You, my love, are a different man entirely.

That was the summer I realized I had found someone who loved me more than he loved himself. Cared about my needs more than his own. Two and a half years later, I said yes to a beautiful ring and a beautiful man, but I had been saying yes all along. We both had.

And on the day of our engagement photos, I wore the coat—a symbol of how love can take the difficult parts and make them beautiful, until all you remember is the sweetness.

This is what I know the rest of our life will be like: lovely and sometimes fraught with difficulty. But I know in the end, the hard times will dissipate, replaced by my memories of a life spent with you.

And when you leaned in to kiss me in front of the vintage poster store, I said, “You’d better make it good.”

“Oh,” you said, with a raise of your eyebrow, “It is going to be Peppard-ian.”

It was.

Happy Valentine’s Day, hive. I hope your love makes you feel like you could sprout wings from your shoulder blades and fly around the world. (Mine does.)