Through my daughter’s wedding plans, I didn’t worry so much about something going wrong. I expected misfires. Something I could not control: the weather, the timeliness of the limo pick-up, the Italians’ (my side) reaction to butternut squash ravioli in place of a traditional penne marinara entree. (The bride and groom wanted a fall-inspired menu).
I did, however, fret over the possibility of me messing up the wedding works. Me and the dark cloud I’d placed myself under since my husband died, thirteen years earlier. Recalling my holiday backfires and red-letter-day rants, I worried I’d unintentionally zap the joy out of Em’s big day too.
Unlike my past meltdowns, I, at least, owned up to the possibility of this one. Em and I talked about my fear, which led us to our mutual hope that Larry's memory be present at the wedding - in a joyful way. How could we do this?
The first idea was her’s –a memorial charm attached to her bouquet. Hidden between the bound stems of her array of fall blossoms and her grasp, this token of remembrance would accompany her every move, from ceremony to celebration. She chose a photo of Larry on our wedding day.
I was beginning to feel better already . . .
The first idea was her’s –a memorial charm attached to her bouquet. Hidden between the bound stems of her array of fall blossoms and her grasp, this token of remembrance would accompany her every move, from ceremony to celebration. She chose a photo of Larry on our wedding day.
I was beginning to feel better already . . .
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