I love weddings. I even like the parts pastors aren’t supposed to enjoy—the flowers, dresses, hair, and make-up. People have their heads full of Kate Middleton, as they dreamed of being a princess for the day. They ended up pouring a fortune into a ceremony that could easily morph a simple religious ceremony into a frenzied, commercialized ball of stress.
I was talking about an author I admire and Brian, my husband, asked, “Her writing’s great and all, but who’s she bringing up?”
I knew what he meant. He wanted to know who was riding her coattails. Who were the people she was encouraging to write and helping along the process? I named a couple of people, and he nodded with satisfaction.
I went on a walk along the bay in Rhode Island. It was the path I took daily, so I was sure footed and looking at the horizon, until I almost stumbled upon an animal corpse. I’m not sure what it was. It was so bloated and distorted—spots of brownish gray fur, the size of a small dog but with much tinier legs. It smelled of warm rot and I became immediately afraid.