The Quaker Meeting House in which we wed was shabby—its carpet faded Wedgewood blue, no festive flowers in a vase, or ribboned pews. But I loved the butter-yellow stucco walls, and the little graveyard at the back, ivy-grown, where only the tops of squat square stones shown grey above the vines. Beneath the eaves, we held for view our newly golden fingers, the charms through which we’d changed from two to one.
We knew a great thing had been done. We were to be each other’s rune and grail, trunk and totem, handkerchief and spoon. Forsaking sex with all others, refusing escape alone from trouble, we promised to cling to the human whom we’d named and kissed. And what a wonder that we did, and have, that years have proved us braver than we knew, and merry, too, love still searching out each other’s hands, as when, beneath the poplars’ summer green, we walked from vows to wedding cake and dancing, and cars drove in the street below the underpass, distracted, to their many destinations.