The Feast of The One

He shakes his head, clearing rust and gold-colored locks of hair from his eyes as he begins to swirl the butter. “You wait for it to stop foaming before you add the eggs,” he murmurs, smiling at me. Dazzling me again with his bright, cobalt eyes, as I beat the golden yolks and delicate whites into a smooth uniformity.

“Now!” He shouts, as he takes the bowl from me, pouring in the eggs. I begin buttering slices of bread to eat with our meal.

Moments later, we have a skillet of fluffy, scrambled eggs. Grabbing a fork and the pan, along with my hand, he leads me up two short flights of narrow, steep stairs to reach a small, dark landing. He tells me there is a bathroom to our right, his father’s former study to our left, and his room is at the back. He opens the door, and we cross the room to share the windowsill, and the lone clean fork, eating, and watching the snow, as night falls.

“We should have known better than to go hiking in the woods today, you can’t trust October weather, ” I muse. He laughs wickedly. “I’m glad we turned back and got snowed in at my house. Now I can show you how I like to spend my nights!”

It’s just our second date, and my eyes widen with fear. He laughs, jumps up from our perch, and grabs a small telescope from the corner. I shiver from the blast of frigid air as he opens the window. The snow has stopped. He smiles at me as he holds out his hand and then leads us through the window and out onto the roof. We sit in a line, like bobsledders, with the telescope perilously balanced between our legs.

He stretches his arms around me to fiddle with the lens. We’re taking turns looking through the eyepiece to gaze at the stars and I ask, “What do you see?”

“Dreams,” he whispers, leaning in, our lips touching for the first time.

I look upon my daughter’s face as I bring my story to a close, and I smile, reassuringly patting her hands. Like her brother and sisters, she has her father’s eyes. I can see by the furrow of her brow that she is deeply reflecting upon my words. She then looks up at me and smiles again, the tension visibly draining from her face.

“That’s how I knew he was the one,” I whisper, and she nods her head. “I know Momma. You’ve told each of us this story, a lot,” she says, placing heavy emphasis on the last word. We both laugh.

“It’s normal for anyone to feel a little nervous when their wedding day comes, no matter how much a couple loves one another, it’s normal to feel a little hesitation. After all, this is a formal, public commitment to one another; that’s supposed to last the rest of your lives. It’s not too late to change your mind, you know. If you aren’t sure?” I ask, hesitantly drawing out the last of my words while peering into her face again for some hint of how she truly feels.

She laughs again, shaking her golden tresses. Her best friend, one of her bridesmaids, has curled her hair into spirals for her. “No, it’s just nerves, Momma. I love Jack, I really do. I know you’ve told us many times that you knew Daddy was the one on your second date, but, honestly, I’ve known Jack was the one when we first met. When we, quite literally, bumped into each other in the library stacks at school, and knocked all those books down! I couldn’t speak for several minutes when I first looked into his eyes.”

We lean in towards one another, our heads nearly touching as we both giggle loudly. Suddenly, a deep, familiar voice interrupts us. “It must be destiny, or fate then, since we know there has never been a power on Earth that could stop you from chattering up a storm since you first came into this world, baby girl,” her father says, as he pokes his head just past the now barely open door of the dressing room. There is more than a hint of tears beginning to glisten in his eyes. He smiles, bravely, at her; his expression is a mixture of pride, happiness and just a tinge of sadness as he holds out his hand to her.

I quickly leave the dressing room and am escorted to my place at the front by an usher. He’s a tall, young man that was among the many we were introduced to during the rehearsal dinner. I can’t quite place his name. Is he a member of the groom’s family, or maybe a friend? All the preparations that have led up to this day have become a shadowy blur in my mind.

The groom and his companions, and the bridesmaids, finally begin to walk down the aisle as the first strains of the overly familiar, traditional wedding march begin to waft through the air. There seems to be a slight delay after the flower girl and ring bearer take their places. All eyes are turned expectantly towards the arch through which the bride and her father should appear at any moment. I hold my breath as I begin to worry.

Has she changed her mind? Why did I waste all that time telling her that story I’ve told so many times before? Have I told her and her siblings all that I’ve needed to, everything that’s important? What if, the good Lord forbid, today’s my last day on Earth, have I told them what truly matters before I go?

I look back towards her groom, the young man she calls, “the one,” her one, and I look at his parents across the aisle. Everyone is still smiling, but you can see the now not-so-subtle signs of jaws tightening, and smiles held a little too long, too stiffly, on dozens of faces throughout the room as the music starts over at the beginning.

Memories of the last two dozen years are whirling through my mind. I’ve told the same stories repeatedly, I chide myself, but while they are true, are they real? Are they useful? To her? To her siblings? What a silly old woman I’ve become, with my tired old stories! I think silently to myself. Finally, I, and the rest of the congregation, let out small sighs of relief, as we see my beloved, with our eldest daughter on his arm, beginning to make their way down the aisle.

Once they reach the front, my daughter is facing her beloved, and the ceremony begins. The One, My One, My Beloved, looks over towards me and catches my gaze, as he first did so many years ago. I feel all of my worries and self-condemnation melt away as his eyes are dancing with joy and reassurance, as if to silently say, “This is different, but it’s safe. Come with me through the window, out onto the ledge and be amazed, come, enjoy this feast!”