I stood there, by the side of the house, alone but for my brother. Everyone else had made their way down towards the field that was painted with buttercups. The sun alternated with a few Toy Story-esque clouds and there was a gentle breeze for which I was grateful.
A few cars zipped down the long gravel driveway - some of them in an obvious panic over their expected tardiness. My cousin, one of my best friends, came driving in like a bat out of hell and then I knew it was time.
My brother and I slowly made our way down towards the field. I know we were talking, but I don’t remember about what. He looked so handsome - all in black with the tie my mom had made him and all of the awful piercings temporarily removed from his face. He was like a rock - sturdy and strong and a source of warmth at my side.
We made it down to the field as one more wayward guest arrived. We stood there waiting for the prelude to finish. I felt the same way then that I do now in retelling it, nervous, excited, and shaking so badly that, in this case, I can barely write.
As the processional began I looked out across the field to the people loved us most and thought “they came here for us.”
We began walking across the field and I realized just how tall those buttercups were and just how long my dress was… and my tendency to trip on things. I turned to Max and said “don’t let me trip.” He smiled, tightened his grip and said “don’t worry, you won’t.”
Phoebe Guider is a writer and artist living with her wife in Richmond, VA. More of her writing can be found at:www.phoebeguider.blogspot.com.