May. 11, 2003 - 22:31:41
Dear Vincent,
So, about the wedding.
The church was enormous, a cathedral commissioned by the Catholic Church in the early 1900s. It was truly awe inspiring, but not necessarily because of the size. Completely blanketing the floor were mosaics, an uncountable amount of little tiles combined into whimsical flourishes that were appropriately religious in nature (crosses, doves etc.). I remarked to the man sitting next to me at the rehearsal that a job like tiling that floor could drive a person mad. He looked at me uncomfortably and stiffly replied, "I hadn't noticed." It was a pretty flimsy brush off. I don't think you could walk into that church and fail to notice the floor.
I tried to imagine what type of person gets the job of tiling the floors of cathedrals. One can almost see him. He arrives at the very first sigh of dawn, along with the construction workers. He probably has long, thin fingers like a pianist. Little wrinkles on the sides of his eyes from squinting at his work in an assessing way. He's an artisan. Holds himself a little hunched from spending too much time hovering over that floor. Just as the first hammer begins to pulse he drops to his knees and winces at the faint cracking noises they make. Running his hands faintly across yesterday's work the grout that dried over night rubs abrasively against his fingers. Bending he begins to lay the tiles with a mathematicians precision. And as the sun circles overhead, ache begins in the small of his back, eventually worming its way steadily upward and into his neck. Amidst the chaos of the city humming and the construction workers drilling and hammering and calling boisterously he measures each minute in small square tiles that make 'chink chink' noises when he accidentally drops them. At the days end, he unfolds himself and another few feet of the floor is done. This time, it is his back that complains joining his knees in small pops and cracks. Did he go home to a wife and children? Did she offer to rub his back? Did she ask, half distracted by the dust from the tiles he's shedding all over her good chair, "How is the floor coming darling?" "Slow." did he reply more sigh than speech? Or did he go home and blankly watch the news. Or did he sit rigidly at the table beneath the glare of the overhead light and plan in messy penciled boxes more patterns? Who was he Vincent? Is he still alive and does he occasionally stop by and walk thoughtfully over the floor he wrought over many hours? Does he tote his grandson along by the hand and boast, "this is the floor grandpa made." Did he ever find it slightly and bitterly ironic that his masterpiece was going to get walked on everyday? Who was he, and where is he now?
I sidetracked myself... we were at the rehearsal. Lilly wore a little black dress and looked slender and stunning, such as only brides-to-be can look, I imagine. David's brow was furrowed and the groomsmen hovered with 'glad it's not me' grins. The rehearsal came off without a hitch and only a few tears. Dinner was at a country club. The first thing I did when I arrived at the country club was to go to the bathroom. It found myself slightly aghast: sofas, chairs, a t.v. and vanity furnished with mouthwash, hairspray and hand cream. I began to seriously doubt that there were actual toilets in this so-called bathroom, but to my relief they were simply in a separate room within the bathroom. On my way out I noticed that the hand cream and mouthwash were contained in identical dispensers. I was much entertained by the thought of a woman garbed in white tennis attire mixing up the two.
They don't trust you to do much for yourself at the county club. They take your trash and refill your drink. My allergies having acted up a was clutching a dirty tissue and an empty glass and conversing with the mother of the groom when one of the waiters asked, "May I get you another drink ma'am?" "No thank you but thank you for offering" I responded. "I'll just take that then if you don't mind" he said reaching for my glass. Obligingly I handed it over. Catching sight of my dirty tissue he insisted, "I'll just take that too." Now, the last time I gave someone else one of my dirty tissues was when I was five. And the person I gave it to was my mother. I was not about to expect anyone to throw my trash away for me, much less my tissues. "No," I said cautiously, "I think I could just throw it away if you'll tell me where the trashcan is." He looked at me as if I had six heads and said, "I'm sorry ma'am there aren't trashcans available to members except in the restrooms." He held his hand out expectantly. "No," I affirmed, "I can hold my own tissues."
The conversation sounded like a parent and child- "No Mommy, I can do it myself!" Apparently the waiter realized it too, because his mouth quirked in a funny way and he offered, "As you wish." At this point, the groom's mother was watching me in what could only have been described as an appalled way. I think she thought I should have given him my tissue.
After dinner there were a few hours of toasts. I was the third person to toast and I was the only one who didn't prepare notecards. I didn't expect there to be time for everyone to toast the couple- but I expected that I should say something. Another example of me losing my self control- I choked myself up and cried in the middle of the toast. I talked about how I had always looked up to Lilly, and when I was little how I had wanted to be exactly like her. "Many years later," I said, "I still want to be like her- but I'm too young to get married" (this is the kind of stupid joke that everyone who is forty and over laughs at). I was finishing, saying, "Lilly is so wonderful, and I love her so much, that like anyone biased by love I was beginning to think there wasn't anyone good enough for her. Than David came along, and he is her equal in every way. Most importantly in the way that he can love her as much as she loves him. And that they have found such happiness and such a good match in each other makes me speechless with happiness..." and then I cried. It must not have been too miserable though because people sought me out to tell me it was a good toast.
The rest of the toasts ran along the vein of, "I have a million embarrassing stories about Lilly/David but I'm not going to tell them because it's not about that..."
The day of the wedding dawned rainy. The women entered the church with fingers spread wide but fruitlessly over their carefully styled hair. Everyone was smiling gleefully. I, foolishly anticipated that I would be unmoved by the ceremony. But when the wedding march started and the doors opened to frame my lovely cousin I knew that, if only for day, I could sell myself on the idea of soul mates and destiny. Her slender form was made willowy in gently white dress that clung around her torso and fell freely in small pools around her feet. The bottom shimmered with sugary lacy, stichery. And the veil was practically weightless, almost floating in graceful puffs with each stately step she took. It fell in cascades around her bare shoulders. But it was how radiant her face was, and his that melted me. I suppose, that I am thankful that there are some things we never get used to. One of them being tangible happiness.
The reception was an equally grand affair. It was at yet another country club (I'd never been to one in my life before the wedding). There was a band, and mounds of roses and an open bar. The open bar proved to be an interesting catalyst for entertainment during the fourth hour of the reception. Sitting with some of Lilly's friends from college, who were either smoking, drunk or a combination of the two, the girl to my left informed me in slurred speech, "I'm inebriated." I confided frankly, "That's a pretty impressive term to use for being drunk, especially when you are."
In attendance at the wedding were the surfers. The surfers are very deserving of their own letter entirely so I will only give you a bit about them. My aunt and uncle have a place at the beach and have made friends with a gaggle of surfers. They are good time people. Having only ever seen them in swim trunks, and Hawaiian shirts I fear I failed to recognize them until they yelled, "Hey blondie!" which is what they call me. They are all middle aged men, mostly retired lawyers who divorced their wives (some of them handled each others divorce cases) though a few are still married, moved to the beach and surf and have barbecues. Their feet seem to always be bare, and they all date women a great deal younger then themselves. These women tend to be very girly blondes who are more than content to frolic around wearing 'his' t-shirts to bed for one endless summer before they realize that there won't be any real commitment before they storm off with great fanfares of fights which are usually attended by most of the long borders club.
But that is absolutely enough about the wedding for one night. I will fill more in as I have more time to put it in perspective. I will have more to say on the occasion when I have successfully subdued the romantic in me.
And now, I am going to go begin "Atonement."
How Indeed,
Meghan
what they said - what they will say
