Day 19
Discuss your favorite parts of your wedding day.
(Then, read the next prompt to prepare for tomorrow.)
“Should we watch it first?” I ask Daniel, who is cleaning up the kitchen after breakfast-for-dinner with Violet.
There are chunks of banana splattered on the floor, scrambled eggs in the creases of her high chair cover, and syrup all over her fingers—which leave sticky handprints as she cruises under the island.
We’re going to be in trouble when she starts walking for real.
“Watch what?” he answers, as he disconnects her tray from the chair and brings it to the sink to wash.
“Our wedding video. We could pause it to discuss our favorite parts throughout.” The idea of curling up on the couch and watching our younger selves pledge our undying love feels way more fun than another conversation.
Not that we’ve had many of those with the nature of the prompts lately. I certainly haven’t minded.
“Oh. Yeah, sure—sounds fun. I’ll put Lettie to bed if you want to find it and pull it up.
I wouldn’t even know where to start with that.
” He grabs our sweet girl under the arms and hikes her up to sit on his forearm.
She looks like a bird perched on a tree, with sticking-up hair to complete the image.
Daniel runs his fingers through it and they come back tacky.
“I’ll give her a quick bath first. Be down in fifteen. ”
“Use the new lavender soap I put by the tub—it’s supposed to help calm her before bedtime.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, and it catches me off-guard.
Three weeks ago, he would’ve been defensive.
I know how to give the baby a bath, Molls.
Today, he’s receptive, understanding my request isn’t a commentary on his abilities, or presumed incompetence.
While I know we’ve been getting closer physically—how could we not, with everything we’ve been doing—these moments of emotional understanding are even more profound.
We’re assuming the best in each other. We’re on the same page.
Even better, it feels like we’re on the same team.
It’s exactly what I hoped for when we started this experiment.
The relief that this is working is palpable in my body.
It’s in the way the base of my neck doesn’t ache at the end of the day, and my teeth don’t wake up clenched.
I feel it when Daniel glides a hand along my waist as I’m cooking dinner, and I’m no longer annoyed at the distraction.
When I catch his gaze across the table and he smiles, and I smile, and my chest flushes warm with the crinkle of his eyes. It’s working.
When I hear his footfall on the stairs, I’m no closer to having our wedding video ready than when he left.
I scramble to the drawer in the tv stand and squat, yanking it open as the wood squeaks.
Sorting through old DVDs and even older Blu-Rays—none of which we’ve watched in years—I find our wedding video on its small thumb drive.
“Find it in that mess somehow?” Daniel asks as he places two hands on my shoulders, kneading gently while peeking at the drawer.
“Easy-peasy,” I reply with a quiet hum as his fingers work my muscles. “If you get your computer, I’ll get the HDMI cord.”
He returns with his laptop in hand and two minutes later we’re splayed out on the couch, me in one corner and him in the middle, with my legs draped over his lap. He’s taken up my feet with his massage hands when I press play.
Pachelbel’s Canon in D lilts softly as the title rolls, our names and the date printed in script. After so long, seeing my first name next to my maiden name feels foreign. Daniel digs his thumb along one of my soles.
“I liked having the string quartet,” he says, and when I look in his direction, his head is tilted pensively.
“You were adamant that a jazz trio would’ve been better, if I recall correctly.”
“Is this the part where I admit that you were right? Maybe for the reception, but for the ceremony it would’ve been obnoxious. I should’ve learned then to listen to you the first time,” he replies.
“Your words, not mine,” I chuckle in response.
The camera pans to the door at the back of the church, which opens to reveal my mom and grandpa beginning their walk toward the front pew.
Mom waves like everyone’s there to see her and the first time we watched this video back, I couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cringe.
I hadn’t considered that part of being the bride—everyone gets to see the processional but you.
Next, my grandma and Daniel’s grandmothers round into the frame, each carrying a basket of flower petals.
When we asked them to be our honorary flower girls, they were absolutely tickled.
While two of the three toss the flowers delicately from side to side, one—I’ll allow her to remain nameless—uses them to chuck at her family members in the audience.
That definitely made me cringe. The bridesmaids are next, each in flowing light blue organza, linked in arms with Daniel’s brothers and best friends.
“I really did like those dresses,” I say, though not a single one of my friends ever wore hers again, though I swore they would.
“They match your eyes,” he says in response, and I’m about to roll mine when I meet his stare and he’s earnest. He’s not being a smart ass. He means it.
“Alright, Romeo, simmer down,” I reply.
Then, with a change of song and increased volume, the doors close and I can feel myself there.
I’m taking deep breaths of old must with light from the stained glass warming the back of my neck and my dad’s hand resting on mine.
“Ready to do this?” he says, and had I said no he would’ve brought a car around himself to take me home. “Absolutely,” I replied instead.
The doors open and everyone stands. The camera pans from me, in a mermaid-cut satin gown with lace on the bust and straps, to Daniel. In his navy suit, he’s as handsome as he’s ever been. His brother hands him a napkin and he dabs his eyes, but even that can’t conceal a megawatt smile.
That’s another thing that stings about being the bride—everyone else sees your beloved’s reaction to you, but you.
“I was barely keeping it together,” he laughs, then switches his attention to rub my other foot.
“If you weren’t crying, I would’ve been concerned.”
“Because I cry at movies so often?”
“Because you cry over the horses in the Anheuser-Busch commercials. If I wasn’t worth the same treatment as a Superbowl ad, I would’ve revolted,” I reply.
“It was overwhelming, seeing you like that. God, you looked so beautiful.”
My dad is kissing my cheek and shaking Daniel’s hand now, having given me away (what a bizarre thing, looking back). Then, Daniel and I are face to face, gripping each other’s hands for anchor.
“We should’ve written our own vows,” I say, as the officiant walks us through the standard set of promises.
“I don’t know—there’s something cool about reciting the same words people have been pledging for centuries.”
“Do you think we’ve done right by them?” I ask.
“The more important question is, do you think we’ve done right by each other? I think we have.”
Nodding for a moment to think, I answer, “I think we have, too.”
We’ve been blessed with health, not sickness, and have landed solidly between richer and poorer. We’ve definitely loved, and we’re getting better at cherishing. And these last few weeks, we’ve done a lot of having and holding.
A cry, sharp and incessant, tears through the living room when Daniel and I exchange rings. When we don’t rush to get her in three seconds flat, Violet responds with another.
“Hard to believe that day led to all this,” he says as I stand. “It was a perfect beginning.”
“I think this messy middle is pretty perfect too. Finish this another time?” I ask.
“Any time you want. See ya in bed, wife.” The wink he gives is subtle. Flirty. Intentioned
And while it’s not our wedding night, I have a feeling tonight will be better.