Candles of sweet apricot lend glowing earnest to a densely windowed room already warmed by elated prescience, by pleasantly jittery suspense. The soft twang of reverent guitar swells and sniffs, intermixing with hummed adult chat, with youthful hoots and cackles and tumbles. In our autumn finery we mingle and purr, draw up from ivory curtained chairs, squinting as children to glimpse the women of the hour.
We are not disappointed.
The guitar smartens, the procession begins. And at the end of a stream of desperately, complexly loved allies – the brides. In creamy white, sparkling from within, smiles wider than faces can contain, they clutch colorful bouquets and each other, inviting the needling tears and cramping cheeks that splendidly plague the remaining evening.
Exquisite reality, comfortable intimacy, panel profound commitment as sincerity and laughter pass between friends and lovers, excite personal memory and prospect. Like golden, unruly curls, tenderness frames the celebration, and we toast, eat, and dance for the imperfect and the ideal we adore so well. Parting in a mist of anemnesis and affirmation, we return to our harvest everydays a little more in love.