It rained on May 12, 1990. Years later, people still come up to me and say things like, “Your wedding was great. Man, it rained.”
I was told that rain on a wedding day was good luck. At the time, I was glad to hear that the heavens were giving us a boost—I’m not superstitious, though this was a day when I wore something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue. Couldn’t hurt, might help.
We’ve been through plenty of life together—I’ve known Jon since 1980, when he stood up at assembly and delivered the week’s announcements in a perfect imitation of the head of the high school, clipboard and all. The head of the high school loved it, and so did I.
Forty years have passed, and here we are.
Sunday night—Mother’s Day—we were in the back yard, grilling pizza with son David and Jameson, who had just arrived in Nashville after a months-long quarantine in Boston, then Monteagle, Tennessee. Jameson pulled out her quarts of sourdough pizza dough, light as air, puffy beyond belief. She looked through the trees, and told us to look up: the sky had turned lavender. A pale, strange color. It shifted through purple, pink, then gray, a sight to see through the bright green of the new leaves.
My mom used to talk about that time of day when the sun is low, and the world glows. “Technicolor time,” she called it. She would have loved this particular evening.
They add up, these days, in a spectacular montage—for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, just like our vows said.
It was a good day, our wedding, but it wasn’t the best day of our marriage. I guess maybe today’s the best day, as I think about it. We keep getting days, one after another. As we all sit here in the midst of a world turned upside down, each day has become an extraordinary combination of rare and mundane. “We get to have another day,” I say to Jon pretty often.