(Esta pieza se estrenó en Whiskey & Palabras, madison, Wisconsin, octubre 21, 2021 para el proyecto de lectura de Madison)

As one could expect in times of change, there was a strong wind.

Y oh, how it blew.

This story is personal.

This story may be entitled.

But it is mine.

It isn’t just that it was a wedding.

Or a wedding in blue.

And outdoors, at a park.

By a pond.

With seriously menacing geese.

It was an August wedding. A wedding in a pandemic.

The storm is coming.

This is our life now.

He asked me at the beginning, her husband.

Should we tell people we are engaged?

Should we tell?

Sí, sí, tell the family, le dije.

The winter has been hard.

People have been low, isolated.

This happy news, yo digo, will bring them joy.

People need joy. Spread the joy.

For joy is resilience, Dije.

And so they told.

And joy did spread.

Like raspberry jam.

We were sticky with it, the joy.

And so it begins in the story that was our life.

A boulder, se dice, una vez soltado para bajar la colina, se moverá más y más rápido y más rápido. y lo hizo.

De repente, parecio, este necesitaba un traje. un vestido. Otro tipo de vestido. un par de zapatos azules, un par de botas de lluvia arrojadas al auto. Para una buena medida.

Una carpa, piso de una carpa. Luces.

Bolsas de obsequios para invitados y máscaras para poner dentro.

Y pruebas de COVID, pero no, talvez no.

Pero los pretzels y chocolates locales, y el desinfectante para manos local.

En la comedia que nadie escribirá el padre de la novia — en la mañana de la boda decir a su esposa: “mi garganta está áspera. Estoy corriendo a Walgreens para recoger algunas pruebas rápidas de COVID. ¿Debería conseguir un montón para repartir a los invitados??”

En la comedia que nadie escribirá, la esposa piensa: “Dale a los willikers! ¿Es esta nuestra vida??” But out loud she says, (in the comedy that no one will write) “No you cannot stick that thing in your nose to test for COVID in the kitchen – in front of the bride – and the makeup artist. And God. And everyone.”

And in the comedy that no one will write the studio audience will laugh and begin to clap.

That may or may not have actually happened.

My mother-in-law had once told me that at life cycle events everyone is always on their worst behavior.

But I never dreamed that the one with the worst behavior would be me.

From the get-go – a little more than four months before the wedding the bride told us – everything has to be blue.

Blue dresses, blue flowers, blue shoes.

Blue skies.

Sí — there are urban legends about how many dresses and shoes had to be purchased online and returned until I found just the right ones. There have been epics written by my UPS man and all manner of snacks I had left out for him, beseechingly – yes, sorry – one more pickup.

And thanks.

And next time should I leave you a bottle of wine? Some Cryto? Weed?

The changes that happened in that time were a microcosm of everything happening in our world. Everyone was starting to act like they had been shot out of cannons. Their arms in the air, running for the surf – “I’m out! I’m free!”

Like a blue bird under a blue moon.

Something rare was happening.

But storm was coming.

The wind told us of change.

The changes happened slowly – and then abruptly.

O pandemic wedding. O happy day.

If we were masked it would be a masquerade. But we were vaxxed – it was a vasquerade. I was watchful. Contained.

Aware of the wind and the light and the joy but watchful for loose napkins.

And virus flying about.

Waiting for the flying monkeys to arrive.

With their darkness.

Even in our joy there was brokenness. There always is.

We have to bring that brokenness along with us.

We are beautiful even in our darkness.

I did not join the conga line after dinner.

But I watched.

For days afterwards I wanted to make sure everyone was feeling well.

Blue skies, blue shoes, blue dress, blue guilt.

In heaven there was a battle.

A promise.

One angel, beseechingly – sky daddy – oh sky daddy – hold the rain.

Hold it a little longer.

There is illness and there is loss.

But for one day, one moment.

Five hours – let there be joy.

Oh joy – respite from worry.

Like a crow. Watchful.

Severe storms were predicted. They were named thunder and lightning and separation. We had been told of a shelter nearby. And we had thirty umbrellas. And sake.

the wind blew – oh how it blew.

And our skirts flew about.

And our hair.

And our promises.

The bride reached for my hand.

But the skies held.

O capricious day. O wedding day.

Somehow in times in our lives when we feel less in control, in times of uncertainty, a wedding is a bridge.

A bridge that carries us between two lives — from the land of anxiety & loss to the land of uncertainty. But a bridge is a bridge. A bridge is solid. Or rickety. But it promises a second place on which to land.

Con un puente hay una promesa de que podemos y seguiremos adelante.

Planificar un evento de este tipo es una forma de engañarnos a nosotros mismos haciéndonos creer que en realidad tenemos algún control, sobre cualquier cosa.. Debido a esto, cada pieza se siente significativa. Pisamos las piedras que nos llevarán a nuestro futuro – se llaman prosecco, papas al ajillo, almendras azucaradas, blue shoes. Burbujas para enviar a los novios a su vida juntos. Una catapulta de raso que los proyecta hacia su futuro..

Estábamos encontrando alegría donde podíamos. En una tarde de agosto.

En la comedia que nadie escribirá la cantinera se me acerca y me dice que nunca ha visto una boda tan feliz. Ni siquiera ha visto una línea de conga en una boda., ella dice. Cómo es eso posible, creo?

Mientras el mundo cambia, cantamos una canción de esperanza. Los tiempos difíciles requieren un baile serio. La alegría está en el canto., el baile. y en el azul.

Al ponerse el sol en la laguna se han comido las papas al ajillo. el pastel ha sido cortado.

Hay risas y todavía una línea de conga.

Y el viento finalmente se ha calmado.

Y tan rápido como ha comenzado el día, cuando la roca ha rodado colina abajo, está oscuro..

Y las luces están brillando - en la tienda.

en sus ojos.

Y hemos cruzado el puente.

En nuestras nuevas vidas.

En la comedia que nadie escribirá el público se levanta y aplaude. En la penumbra, los padres se dan la mano y hacen una reverencia..

Porque hasta las comedias terminan.

se limpian los ojos.

Cargando las flores ahora marchitas en el auto.

conducen a casa.