by Jeff Oaks
So I got married last Friday, October 10. We had a simple ceremony at a local district magistrate who is an old friend, and then a group of friends and family later that evening at our house. I say simple, but we had a handful of family from both sides present to snap pictures and beam good energy at us as we both struggled not to cry during the recitation of the vows. Several friends thought we’d write our own vows, because, well, I was a writer, and so of course…But I shook my head and said that the traditional ones were going to be enough. I in fact didn’t want to be too individual at that moment. I wanted to be like most other Americans who take the traditional route. For richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do we part. I wanted my marriage to be a moment to feel a part of the larger life of humanity; I wanted to say the words that most people say. And it was enough to bring tears to my eyes.
And now I wear the ring. Everybody at the dog park today asked me if I felt different. And I do and I don’t. What I do have for sure is an understanding about marriage that I didn’t have before I met my husband, Michael. What I found in him was someone with whom I could be really stripped down vulnerable. I don’t think I ever felt that before. It might be that I’ve finally gotten to a point in my life where I could be vulnerable, and there was Michael at the right moment with his warmth and kindness and handsome-ness. I don’t know though. It doesn’t seem to help to figure out the reasons why we work. It seemed to happen quickly. We both feel lucky. It feels right.
Geese fly over us, toward the river a few blocks away. We’re two days past the wedding. The house has been returned, more or less, to normal. I had to clear the back patio for the party, a thing I’d been putting off for years, and now we’re sitting out here with Andy and the two pumpkins I carved. He’s reading and I’m writing this. Andy lounges on an old blanket underneath the patio table. He’s adjusted pretty well to the new arrangement, although he still howls at Michael when he comes in late from work. But right now, on this patio which I’d been neglecting for a while now, we’re suddenly a family.
So I begin again, a new experiment in living. Today we walked over to the local breakfast diner, then to the new card store where we bought enough envelopes for thank you cards, then to the new movie theater to find out how much tickets are. What do married people do? Have adventures together. Have fun. Have hope for the future, which in my more skeptical years sounded like a terrible cliche.
Some things haven’t really changed; Michael has been effectively living with me for months now. We’ve been sharing bathrooms, kitchens, tv remotes, laundry, soap, and razors. We go grocery shopping together.
I feel like I’ve now officially bought a ticket to a long trip. As has he, of course. We’re promising each other we’re not going to bail on the other, that we trust each other to companion us, to be our plus ones. To become fixed points around which we can begin to plan things. I am here for you.
A huge flock of geese flies over. We both look up. Fall is coming. The trees are turning red and orange. There’s a kind of loneliness in it, a kind of inward turning that we both love.
First he has to get back to school. I have to finish my book of prose. This summer we’re taking our honeymoon to Scotland.