An Anniversary Story

“Are you ready?” My father asked with a slight glimmer in his eye. Tears that he wouldn’t let fall.  I said, “Yes, daddy don’t do that.” I didn’t want him to cry but if he did I surely would. I looked up at the ceiling and fanned my eyes. My aunts Cynthia and Deborah opened the double doors of the reception venue. My Love, Sweet Love began to play. Yes, Patti sang!  My father and I stepped forward. I took a deep breath and began the chapter entitled Mrs. Jones. Each step I reminded myself of all that we had been through. The trying times, the crying times, the dancing times and the laughing times. The good far outweighed the bad. With each step I grew happier. With each step the love I had for Tommie grew within my soul. As I stood underneath a magnolia covered  arch and prepared to walk into my forever I looked at the faces of our guests. A chosen few. Invitation only. These faces belonged to those most dear to us. The faces of those that had been with us since day one. Faces of those that would honor and protect our marriage because they had grown to become a part of us. Most importantly the faces that without a doubt would bow in prayer for us… in good times and bad. We chose the good that we wanted to surround ourselves with on our special day. The officiant, the videographer and the photographer...  my classmates and a family friend. It was our kind of intimacy. Then I saw him. Tommie.  My kind of peace. The father of my children. My partner. We had built so much together over the past 7 years. We had a family. We had bought a house in Crawfordville and made it our home. We had supported one another. Comforted one another. Cried together. Prayed together. Anybody can be there for you when you need them. Deaths of family and friends. I didn’t need him to do what came naturally but this man would hold me in the shower and tell me to let it all out. He was not just there, he made himself a part of my pain. A part of my joy. The closer that I got to him, the more beautiful his being became. The brighter his light shone. When my father and I reached him and the song stopped. “Who gives the woman to this man?" “Her mother and I do…” my father placed my hand into Tommie’s hand. Here we are now 8 years later. It’s never about the wedding day. A marriage is about every day. It’s about every hour of each day. It takes more communication than work. More willingness to forgive than the want to be right. He still surprises me. He still strengthens me. He still wants the best for me.  He still works my nerves. He still pushes my buttons. He still lights my fire. He still keeps it real. He still makes me proud to say that he is my husband.