The Quaker Meeting House in which we wed was shabbyâ€”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 weâ€™d changed from two to one.
We knew a great thing had been done. We were to be each otherâ€™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 weâ€™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 otherâ€™s hands, as when, beneath the poplarsâ€™ 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.