If not for my husband, we probably wouldn’t be here. He’s been the driving force – both literally driving and figuratively pushing – in getting us here. If left to us, my family and I would be putting off these visits…we’d find excuses – no time off, too long a drive, nothing to do while we’re there, too much to do at home – and then find ourselves here only when summoned, like we were with my grandfather, by announcement of death.

My aunt was diagnosed with ALS just over 2 years ago. She went for some time without any symptoms to speak of and then – BAM – her body started slipping away. First her hands, then her arms, the disease crept up her extremities and slowly robbed her of the things she loved to do the most: keep her house, hug her grandbabies, cook huge southern dinners with too much butter and too many deep fried components. Before long, her legs started to betray her, giving out while she walked with her girlfriends, refusing to let her stand for any length of time. Before she knew it, she was confined to a wheelchair. Not that it was easy to get her to admit she needed the wheelchair. Like her father before her, and her brother after her, that side of my family is legendary in its stubbornness. 

At my wedding, my aunt was walking. Today, she’s barely breathing.

When her legs started to give way, it was my husband who said we needed to visit her. See her “now, while she can enjoy you. Before she’s too far gone.” My father and my mother and I all came up with excuses. We didn’t want to bother her. We didn’t have the time off of work. We had other things planned. We were busy. Really, we were scared. We were afraid to see her slowly fading. We were afraid of it being awkward, of not knowing what to say or what to talk about. Afraid to ask how she was feeling, afraid of what was happening to her. So we buried our heads and went about our business. 

And then my grandfather died. The last time I had seen him was at my wedding. My father had a plan to see him, but Paw Paw died two weeks before that plan was realized. We missed seeing him. We didn’t get to say goodbye. We waited too long to see him, and it was too late. That vacation my dad had planned to spend with my Paw Paw? He spent it tending to Paw Paw’s estate. Going through his house and looking at pictures that Paw Paw wouldn’t get to explain now. It was awful. And it was also a wakeup call. My husband had been right. What the fuck had we been waiting for?

At my grandfather’s funeral in May, my aunt’s ability to speak was showing the first signs fading. “She’s dying, Anna,” my husband told me. “We can’t wait to come back here.” He was right. My grandfather was 91 when he died; there was a time that it was a very real possibility that he would outlive his 66 year old daughter. We decided to visit again for the Fourth of July.

By July, my aunt’s ability to speak was grinding to a halt. Her brain knew what she wanted to say, but the struggle to form the words was evident. Her mouth moved too slowly, her tongue seemed fat and thick and useless. The little use she had of her hands was now limited to her fingers, and the most she could do with her legs was swing one back and forth.

“She won’t make it through the holidays,” my husband said. “We need to go back.” He couldn’t come with us, but we planned a trip in the fall. And the difference between her summer and fall self was stark. Her voice was almost entirely gone. She was waiting for a computer system that would speak for her. She used a motorized chair that she could control with the movement of her head; which was the only thing that she could move anymore.

I suppose that every time we left, I felt like it was the last time we’d see her. We’d pull out of their driveway after our week-long visit and I’d see her there – at the top of the ramp they’d had to install over the front porch of the house she’d lived in for the last fifty years; her hands helplessly limp on the arms of her chair, her face curled into honest and heartbreaking tears, her head buried in her sad husband’s belly – and I’d think, “This is it. This is the last time I will see her face. This is the last time my dad will hug his sister.”

She had a feeding tube implanted just after we left the last time. But she doesn’t want to use it. She made her husband sign a DNR. She told her children – via a letter that she had type at an excruciatingly slow pace, using a special computer program that registers the movement of her eyes over a keyboard – that while she had wanted to prolong her life as far as possible, she’d changed her mind. Because this was not a life, she said. She couldn’t hug her grandkids. She can’t fold laundry. She can’t feed or clothe herself. She can’t even talk. It’s not living, just existing. 

Despite growing breathing problems, increasing pain and frustration, she had a beautiful holiday with her family. I thought of her the whole time, knowing that she knows this is probably her last Christmas. 

When her hospice nurse told my cousin that they’d be lucky to have her for another four weeks, my husband once again insisted we visit. 

And here we are, in a hotel room. He’s sleeping beside me, recovering from a long over-night drive. My parents are already there, at my aunt’s house, visiting her for what we all probably think is the last time.

I’m scared of what I’ll see when I see her. She’s thinner and she can’t speak and she’s hurting and she’s frustrated….and there’s this thing about someone so helpless and quiet, who looks at you with wide, frustrated eyes and an open, silent mouth; it makes you want to treat them like a child. But she’s not; her mind is sharp as it was when she was an Registered Nurse in the pediatric unit of the local hospital. It’s not that her body’s not working because her brain stopped. On the contrary, her whole body stopped working while her brain is just as good as ever. She’s a prisoner in her own body. She feels everything, but she can’t move. She hurts, but she can’t do anything about it. She knows what she wants to say, but the words won’t come out. It’s like everyone’s worse nightmare, come to life. It might be the cruelest disease imaginable. 

I wonder, but I don’t know, how she feels; I’m afraid to ask her. I don’t know why. Maybe because I think it would hurt her to explain it? Maybe because I think it’s about as impolite as asking a woman her age or her weight? Maybe because I’m afraid I don’t want to know, because I can’t even imagine the depth of her sadness and hurt.

I also don’t know how my father feels. Once she’s gone, he’ll be the only one of his family left. I can’t imagine the loneliness that comes with that; your family is the only witness you have to certain parts of your life. To have them all gone, to have to carry those memories and stories and experiences all on your own now, must be terribly heavy. My heart aches when I think of what he must feel. Watching him watch her is the hardest part of being here. He looks at her like my little brother looks at me. It’s heartbreaking.

But I’m glad I get to see it. I’m glad my husband champions our coming back. I’m glad we’re not falling short on goodbyes this time. I’m glad we’re here for her; I’m glad we’re here for my daddy. I’m glad we’re here. Even if it’s scary.

He doesn’t understand it, but, to me, that’s exactly reverberates between my ears when I come home to find the sink full of the dishes he swore he’d wash; when his dirty clothes – destined for the washer when I left this morning for work – still lay like fallen soldiers on the battlefield of our hardwood bedroom floor. In my mind, the chaos of our house isn’t limited to sight. It  is visceral. I feel it in my gut, my ears, my fingers, my chest.

I’ve never been a neat person; my adolescence was for my mother what my adulthood has become for me. Call it karma, or comeuppance; whatever it is, it haunts me. I have a terrible habit of leaving a trail of where I’ve been when I visit my parents’ house. Yet, within the walls of the home I share with my husband, one out of place magazine, and I’ve come undone.

It’s not just hard to explain it to my husband: it is impossible. The chaos that I see when I come home to a messy living room is merely home to him. I’ve tried the sweet approach. I’ve tried begging. I’ve tried suggestion. I’ve tried the age-old nag. But nothing seems to work. Instead, we have the same fight day after day.

Last month, my husband and I celebrated our one year anniversary. We didn’t go nuts with a vacation and fancy gifts; we went out to a nice dinner and talked about what we were doing that exact moment exactly one year ago. We talked about how happy we are together, and what a good match we are for one another. It’s true; our life together may not be charmed in terms of wealth, but to say it’s anything less than magical in terms of romance and being well-matched would be a lie. He is the yin to my yang – making me laugh when all I want to do is cry, pulling me out of the even the foulest mood, being the laid back answer to my constant anxiety. And I am his – paying the bills that he can’t be bothered to remember, keeping the clothes clean, reminding him that he is the most intelligent man I know.

This year has not been easy, either. In August, he quit his full time job to become a full time student. His dream to become a doctor is one step closer to becoming true. We now rely on my income, the VA and a generously-paying part time job he was able to land to pay our bills. I lost my grandfather to old age, I am losing my aunt to ALS. We have moved. He was in the hospital. But through those and other things, we have remained a united front, curling into each other in our bed at the end of our longest days.

And, yet, one thing remains: the household chores. It’s the one thing we can’t come together on. The one thing that, on nights like tonight,  forces us to speak in clipped little sentences and drives a dirty, out-of-place wedge right down the middle of our best friendship.

It seems so silly, to have a relentless fight over dirty dishes and the laundry. Cliche, even. I catch myself talking to friends, saying things like, “If I find one more dirty sock on the living room floor….” Who is this person? And why does she care so much about dirty fucking socks?

The truth, and what I’ve tried to articulate to my other half, is that I feel like it’s a personal attack. As much as I know it’s not the case, I picture him peeling the sock off of his tired foot, throwing it precisely in the middle of the living room floor, and saying something like, “I could pick that up….but I know Anna will get it.” I picture him walking five, six, ten times past a sink full of dishes, and making the conscious choice to not wash them, because he knows that if he leaves them long enough, I’ll take care of it.

I know that’s not the case – that it just doesn’t bother him like it does me – but I still feel like it’s a chore he’s chosen to leave for me. And feeling that way makes me neglect to appreciate his efforts. When he does do the dishes, instead of being grateful for the ten pots he washed, I’ll focus on the one lid he neglected – oh, and there is always one – still cloudy and mottled with pasta water, sitting alone and forgotten on the stovetop.

It’s only when I take a step back that I can see how ridiculous it is. It’s a lid. It’s nothing. I’ve been in relationships where I wasn’t sure I was the only woman. I’ve been with significant others who took me for granted. I’ve heard that I was fat, that I was crazy, that I was making it hard to love me. I’ve heard so many hurtful, awful things…and my husband would never say any of them. Not in a million years. He would never betray me. He brings home flowers for no reason. He puts me first, always. He treats me like a queen. He appreciates everything I do. He would give his life for me if I needed it. And, yet, I stop talking to him because of a sock on the floor.

Everything is relative. Being taken for granted and cheated on and called unlovable makes you appreciate the smallest romantic overtures. Dating an asshole can skew your perception and appreciate the most asinine overtures. Like Weezer said in Steel Magnolias, “He’s a real gentleman. I bet he takes the dishes out of the sink ‘fore he pees in it.” While marrying a wonderful man – the kind who drives your grieving father across three states, overnight, to a funeral for a man he’s met only once – apparently makes you aware of the smallest of grievances. It’s as though I suddenly have nothing to complain about, so socks will just have to do. Because who am I without my constant complaining?

But then again, who would I be without him at this point?

I’ll pick up the socks.

THIS TIME.

My stomach fell into my pelvis. I struggled to maintain my composure amid the faces of the just-adjourned meeting. I didn’t want them to see me crying into my blackberry. I didn’t want anyone to see the color drain from my face, the sickness I was feeling.

I was sad for my Paw Paw, of course. Sad that I hadn’t been able to see him, sad that he was gone. But he’d lived a life fuller than most, and his passing wasn’t altogether surprising. I felt like he’d been ready – tired – for a while, and passing on was a formality a long time in the making. He wasn’t sick, just blind and old. But he’d been ready to go.

My first thought was for my father: He had a trip planned to see his father in just three short weeks. It seemed so unfair to have his father slip away without being able to spend one last moment with him. And, having lost his mother over ten years ago, it put him in the saddest place I can imagine: Parentless.

We all grow up knowing that we’re going to lose our parents; it’s the natural order of things to say goodbye to the people who gave us life. But, from what I’ve heard, there’s a terrible weightlessness in not having any parents left. Like you’re bouncing around on the surface of the moon, tethered, now, to nothing.

And when I called my parents after my husband delivered the news, it was my dad who answered. I could hear the hurt in his voice, the tears in his throat. “I’m so sorry, Daddy,” I told him, my words painfully impotent in the face of his loss. “We’re coming over tonight, okay? I mean, is that alright? Or would you rather be alone? You tell me…”

There was a long pause, the sharp intake of breath that told me it wasn’t that he didn’t have words, it was that he couldn’t get them out. “I would like it,” he said slowly, “if you guys came here.”

So my husband and I got in the car and drove to my parents’ house and, once there, went through the painful process of planning how we’d go to the funeral.

My father’s sister and her husband took care of the arrangements while my father, mother, husband and I drove, in a rented minivan, the 16 hours south to Kentucky. I found myself unusually upbeat, the joker to my father’s king, hoping to bring whatever levity I could, to distract him from his surely prevalent thoughts that he was, suddenly and sadly, without his father.

But whatever joking I could do was limited to the car. Pulling into the no-stoplight town where my father grew up – where flags were at half-mast for my Paw Paw’s passing, where every backlit sign in town sang my late grandfather’s praises – proved more than even my father-daughter bond could overcome. My father’s eyes were perpetually red-rimmed, his face constantly strained with the effort of holding back tears.

The afternoon we arrived, the local pastor visited my aunt’s house to gather stories from the family. It’s normal, he said, for the pastor to talk about the departed, but the only stories he knows are the stories our Paw Paw gave him. He wanted to know our stories, our memories.

I listened as my cousins, far closer – physically and emotionally – to my grandfather than I could ever hope to be, ticked off story after story. And I watched my uncle, my Paw Paw’s son-in-law, deliver his own tome of his relationship with my grandpa. And whenever my aunt spoke, all mouths fell silent; as the child who’d stayed close to home, she was surely the closest link any of us had to our dearly departed. But suffering from ALS, her disease had caused her words to soften and blur into each other, demanding the sort of attention that I’m sure none of us had ever offered anyone.

And I listened to everyone offer their story, their little anecdote from the bloodline I shared. But I had grown up the child of an Army officer, whose career took him from his small hometown right after his high school graduation. My interaction with my grandparents was limited to holidays and summer vacations, when my family – stationed or living states away from my father’s parents – could afford the time it took for a vacation. In the face of my cousins’ clear and present memories – their detailed and copious accounts of my grandparents – my own experiences felt meek and worthless in comparison.

I searched frantically for a memory that somehow matched the levity or gravity of the stories my cousins were sharing. But there was nothing. They saw my grandparents every day. I saw them once a year. My memories kept circling back to my grandmother’s passing, over ten years ago. This isn’t about Maw Maw’s funeral, I reminded myself. You have to have a memory of just Paw Paw.

But I didn’t. Except for one.

“What I always think of,” I began, somewhat timidly, during a lull in the conversation, “is the way he’d hug you.” And I looked at my brother, whose face crumbled into tears of loss, and then my father, whose face was buried in the safety of his handkerchief. I crossed my arms in front of my chest to demonstrate, “It was so tight,” I continued, noticing the nods of agreement from my cousins, my aunt and uncle. “When he hugged you…you knew it. You know? And he’d sort of…clap you. On the back. But his grip on you was so tight….”

“He could’ve broke your back if ya’d let ‘im,” my cousin chimed in. And we all sort of chuckled for a second….

And then there was a moment where we were all quiet. Where we all, collectively, realized that we wouldn’t feel that sort of all-encompassing hug ever again.

And when I think of my grandfather’s funeral now, a scant two months later, there are a lot of images that come to mind: My father smiling at the people who knew him when he was just a trouble making kid; the sound of Taps echoing through the cemetary; the image of firefighters paying homage to the man who started the department in town as his procession passed; Fire Truck #1, that my Paw Paw purchased for his town back in the 50s, carrying his casket behind no less than 15 firetrucks from neighboring towns. I’ll never forget my father’s sadness, and I’ll never forget my mom – who had been uncharacteristically even-keeled throughout the week – lose it in the car on the way to his grave.

But it wasn’t until this weekend that I remembered the hugging. Because my own father has started to hug like his dad used to.

“Woah,” said my husband the last time we had my parents over for dinner. And over the clap of my father’s hand on his shoulder blades, a playful “Don’t break my back!”

The legacy my grandfather left was simple: Don’t wait. And my father isn’t.

It seems to me that somewhere along the line, my daddy decided that he’d carry on the tradition that my Paw Paw left. That he’d hug you so tight that you wouldn’t forget it. That he’d hug you tight enough for all of the hugs he couldn’t give to his own dad. He wants us to know it now, my Daddy.

And I do know: I know his sadness. I feel his hurt. But, mostly, I feel his love. And I know that it won’t take his passing for me to remember that being in his arms feels like the safest place in the world; like there’s no where in this world I’m more loved. And he’s willing to squeeze tight enough to break us to prove it.

Which, looking back, is probably what Paw Paw was doing, too.

I’ve picked up the habit of listening to her since my mom gave me a book for Christmas, The Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands. She listens to Dr. Laura every day, and thought I might enjoy the book, being a newlywed and all. I didn’t know much about Dr. Laura before Christmas morning when I opened the book; I only had the vaguest of bad tastes in my mouth from the mention of her name. Like I didn’t like her for some reason, or I shouldn’t like her, or something. Severely left-wing? Severely right? Extremely religious? Obnoxious? I couldn’t remember. But I read the book. And, actually, I liked it. Sure, there were things I disagreed with, but the principle behind it was something I tend to believe in: Men are simple. Love them – love them right – and they’ll love you right back. So I started listening to the show…

And I realized that I spent some of the time agreeing with her – I, too, believe in the principles of marriage and forever and family and devotion and good sex and being your husband’s girlfriend and so on and so forth – but I spent a majority time incredulous at some of the things she was saying. “Dr. Laura, my husband and I have two kids. I walked in on my husband sleeping with another man, and I don’t know what to do. Should I get a divorce?” “Since you have children, you should stay with him. But tell him it is unacceptable to ever sleep with anyone outside of your marriage ever again.” Oh, is it that easy, Dr. Laura? Just stay with a cheating husband? Okay. You know, he probably slept with that other dude because in our wedding vows, I didn’t specifically say ‘don’t sleep with any men,’ and saying it now will probably do the trick. And the fact that he completely betrayed me, and probably would’ve done so forever if I hadn’t caught him, that’s no big deal. I’ll just tell him to stop and that’ll be it, and we’ll be a happy family. Thanks!

But for whatever reason, I can’t not listen. I mean, sometimes, sure, I agree. But more than that, I like hearing what she has to say – it’s always interesting to hear other perspectives. And most of all, I like hearing people’s stories. And, really, I think all this time I’ve been waiting for someone to call in with my question, my story. Today, someone did.

Just before theoverpass that always interrupts my Sirius signal, a bubbly woman came on. “Hey Dr. Laura! I’m so nervous, but I’m so excited to talk to you!”

“Nice to talk to you too, dear,” cooed Dr. Laura, condescending despite her sweetness. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, I’ve been married just about a year to a wonderful man. I really think I picked the right guy,” she giggles.

“Good for you!” praises Dr. Laura.

“Thank you,” says the caller, sounding so grateful and proud to be praised by the likes of Laura. “Thank you. I’m happy. So happy….It’s just that….well….I’m 31, and I’ve had a long history of dating….guys who were….bad for me….bad boys, I guess I should say. Like, one-foot-out-the-door-boys. And I’m having a hard time with my husband, because he’s not that way at all. He’s so sweet and caring and kind and good to me….and I don’t get that same thing I got with those other bad guys. That….I don’t know. High? That feeling, you know? Chemistry? I guess?”

As is her M.O., Dr. Laura interrupts: “Are you saying you don’t love or you aren’t sexually attracted to this wonderful man you’ve married?”

“Oh, no,” the caller rushes to clarify. “It’s not that. I do love him. Very much. And of course I’m attracted to him. It’s just that I don’t get that high, you know? I used to get such a high when I was dating those one-foot-out-the-door types. And I don’t know, this is just so different. It’s not bad, but it’s different, you know? And I feel like maybe there’s something wrong because I don’t get that same high I used to get…And-”

“Listen to me,” Dr. Laura interjects. Sternly, I might add. And at this point, I had pulled over, my car idling in a strip mall parking lot, just to be sure I didn’t miss a second because of that stupid overpass. I sat there, marveling that this woman – this stranger, on the radio, from God knows where – is my age, is recently married, and is feeling the same weird confusion I’ve felt. And I just sat there, staring out at the road in front of me, waiting to hear what Dr. Laura would say about something that is essentially my very story.

“Okay,” says the caller, deferring to the doctor. I could almost see her sitting back, hands clasped together with hope and anticipation, waiting for the answer to all of her problems. They key to some weird lock on the secret of a good marriage. A happy one. The kind where women just adore their men. The kind of marriage she thought she’d have. The kind of marriage where she would have the same feelings she had about those bad boys; only, she’d have those feelings about the good boy.

Dr. Laura takes in a breath and spells it out matter-of-factly. “You’re never going to feel that high again.”

The girl and I both push out a meek, “Ooooh-kaaaaay?”

“You’re never going to feel it again. You just won’t. And you know what?”

“WHAT?” the caller and I both ask, wide-eyed and eagerly.

“That’s a good thing.”

“It is?” We’re both confused. We thought that high was what love is. And we’ve been thinking that maybe something’s wrong because we don’t feel it. I mean, sure, we both know nothing’s wrong. We know we love our husbands. We know that we’ve chosen right, and that we’re happier than we’ve been, ever. We even kind of know that what we felt for those guys was more about winning them, making them love us, than it ever was about love, or mutual respect, or care, or any semblance or real affection. We know that the guys loved us because we were available and would only love us when it was convenient for them, and we know that our husbands love us because of who we are and what we are and that the love our husbands show us is unwavering; it doesn’t hinge on us biting our tongues when we want to disagree. Our husbands won’t leave us because we dared to speak up for ourselves. Our husbands’ love is not conditional. But that high? The high of meeting the conditions? Of getting it right? Of winning? It’s like crack. Heroin. Meth. It’s bad, sure. We know it, in our heads. But, fuck. It is good. And like any addict, we think that high is where it’s at.

“Of course it’s a good thing,” Dr. Laura says. Like it’s the simplest thing in the world. The caller and I both feel a little sheepish as we listen. “That high wasn’t real. And it was bad for you. And you went and did the smart thing and traded it in for a warm, mature, sweet, kind relationship….”

I don’t know what else she said. I can’t remember. All I know is that I keep thinking about that moment where she said “You’ll never feel that high again.” Because it really is that easy. And I can’t believe I just didn’t see the simplicity of it before that moment.

Because it’s not that I don’t feel a high with my husband. Not at all. But it’s so different. And my whole life, I was used to this high that came right before or right after some terrible low. And I’ve said it a million times, but somewhere along the line I started to mistake fighting and being unfulfilled for love. That high-low pattern I lived for the last 10 years of my life became my definition of love. And while I always knew that real love didn’t have to hurt to be right – that real love was what my parents had, not what I was muddling through – I started to feel like the dysfunctional language I’d started speaking was the only language there was.

I haven’t regretted marrying Michael for even one second. But I have spent a lot of time worrying about the fact that I don’t worry about him. Us. That I don’t feel the need to check his phone when he leaves it with me….that he’s so open with me, he just gives me his phone, and doesn’t care what I do with it. I’ve never experienced that, in my whole life. In my past, there was always secrecy and a definite line between where His Life ended, and where Our Life began. The two never ran together. But here, now, there’s no secrecy. And the fact that I’m not worried about where he is or what he’s doing somehow worries me. Does it mean I don’t care?

Of course it doesn’t. I’m fully aware of the fact that the very thing that worries me is the one thing I always wanted out of relationships: Trust.

I trust my husband. Fully. Completely. And I don’t quite know, apparently, what that feels like. And like a deaf person who can finally hear is surprised and frightened by the sudden sound in their ears, I don’t quite know what to do with the safety I finally have.

The caller sounded so relieved when Dr. Laura’s explanation was over. “So I’m okay?” she asked, happily and hopefully. “We’re okay?”

Dr. Laura laughed. “Of course you are!”

Of course I am. I’m better than okay. I’m grateful. And I’m lucky. And I’m only starting to skim the surface of exactly how lucky I am.

Two weeks ago, I decided, with no particular amount of flourish – and with no meaning attached – that tonight would be my last night as A Smoker.

I figured that it would be better if I just did it, you know? Without any grand-standing, without any big heft behind it….just quit on a random Monday morning because it was time. I mean, I knew I had to set a date – because “they” say that it’s the best way to go – but I didn’t want to put too much gravity on a certain date. Because I tend to wither when there’s too much hoopla, I wanted it to be a sort of private thing. I didn’t want to go around bragging about how I’d be a quitter, gloating about my resolve, because, honestly, what I fail? My habit of not seeing it through has, much like my relationship history, made me reluctant to make any sweeping declarations about how it’s going to be different this time.

But, much like my current relationship being oh-so-different from my past ones, this quittin’ time is also very different from the ones that came before.

This time, I have a very real goal in mind. And a very real center of motivation.

I quit taking the pill almost as soon as Michael and I got married. The idea wasn’t to get pregnant right away, but to facilitate the process when it was time. It’s been almost six months since the wedding, and while we’re not quite ready to be parents yet, it’s time to get serious about turning my body into the kind of environment that’s worthy of the miracle of life. We’re working out more, we’re eating mindfully, and now it’s time for me to up the ante.

A few months ago, we were – how shall I say? – careless. And for two (long) weeks, I was nearly certain we’d made a little baby. And the second I thought we might be pregnant, I threw away a half pack of cigarettes and very easily talked myself out of every craving by picturing a little piece of us growing inside of me. It was easy, yes. But that didn’t stop me from lighting up after the third negative pregnancy test result.

But this time, it’s not the idea that I have to quit because I’m pregnant. It’s the knowledge that I’m quitting because I want to be someone’s mother, and this is probably the least difficult thing I’ll do in that journey. And I’m feeling really strong – having been through the quitting process a number of times, I know that the devil within me will try to convince me to have just one. I know that I’ll reason with myself that it doesn’t count if  no one sees it. I know all of those things, and I’m feeling like there’s enough opposition within me these days to fight it. The fight, this time, is bigger than I am.

The point is, I’m quitting. In twenty minutes or so, after I’ve closed down the computer and grown tired of the Oscars, I will sit outside on my porch have my last cigarette. And I’m feeling really good about it. Wish me luck.

But not just for the quitting. For the life – lives? – that will survive beyond it.

“Hey, guess what happened today!”
“There was a moving truck outside?!”

 “I’ve got great news!”
“There’s a moving truck outside?!”

“You know what I’d really like right now?”
“A moving truck to show up outside?”

You get the idea.

Anyway, for well over six months now, the idea of The Moving Truck has become a beacon of hope; the symbol of a new day, a new era; a point of light in overwhelmingly violent and uncomfortable storm. Picturing The Moving Truck has become one of our favorite pastimes, as we lie in bed, letting the screeches and stomps of the family upstairs rain down upon us. “Imagine what it will be like,” one of us will whisper to the other in the darkness, curled up together, cringing from the latest string of obscenities our neighbor has screamed at her children or husband. “It’ll be so quiet.” The thought will linger in the air, possibilities of falling asleep before midnight stretching out before us like a candy coated yellow brick road. And we’ll smile and settle into the fantasy…Until someone throws something upstairs and shakes the pictures hanging over our bed.

Our last incident with the neighbors led the development’s office to confide in us that the neighbors would, in fact, be moving by March 6th. Normally, they wouldn’t give us that sort of information, but considering I was vaguely threatened, the girl in the office thought it was only fair. But Michael and I had our doubts. The husband upstairs had told Michael, back in July, that they were only temporary residents. That they were building a house and would be out by October. We believed them, and dreamed, even during our September wedding in Kentucky, that perhaps they were moving out right then. But October came and went. “Construction has delays,” Michael assured me. “Give them till November…” And then November gave way to December and I came home one day to see a wreath on their door.“They’re not leaving,” I said to Michael, as I closed the door behind me and slumped against it. “There’s a wreath on their door and I’m pretty sure I saw a Christmas tree near their window. They’re settling in. What if they NEVER leave?”

We thought we were done-for in late December when we heard their worst fight to date, where she railed on for an hour about how he can’t even afford the rent, how does he expect to afford a big house. She colored her rant with every expletive imaginable, reminding him, in addition, that she hasn’t shopped in months and that she’s not his slave and that she hates being a mother and the kids are driving her crazy. But the part of her rant that we truly clung to was the money part. What if their financing fell through? Oh God, please don’t say their financing fell through.

So we were understandably hesitant to believe the news that they’d actually be leaving.

But this morning, as I locked my front door I heard the unmistakable beeping of the backing up of a large truck. And I turned around to see it, in all of its glory:

The Moving Truck.

For real. In front of my apartment, in front of my eyes, ready to change my life.

I smiled immediately, and walked past the movers to my car, wishing them good morning and good luck – though I’m not sure they understood why the luck was wished – and hopped into my car. And I stayed there until I watched the men walk up to and knock on my upstairs neighbors’ door.

I called Michael immediately and gave him the good news. “I’m buying a bottle of wine on my way home. We are going to celebrate tonight,” he promised. I imagine that there will be toasts, the song “Hit The Road Jack” playing at full volume on a constant loop, maniacal laughing and possibly some jumping on the bed.

My friends, it appears that the Reign of Terror is over. And dreams DO come true.

And here we are, in our “condo,” my lasagna soup in its simmer phase on the stove, and literally the ONLY thing I can think about right now is the flurry of footsteps – and the occasional screaming tirade – going on just above my scalp. There’s this feeling that takes me over whenever I hear them up there. It’s very physical: A tightness in my chest, the clenching of almost all of my muscles, a very determined frown that, more often than not, makes its eventual turn into tears.

It’s not the noise itself, though. Sure, that bothers me. Of course it does. Coupled with my dangling wine glasses that shimmy around in their slots in my bar and the picture frames that rattle against the drywall, the noise itself is enough to drive anyone crazy. But it’s not just that. It’s the carelessness – the complete lack of consideration – and the powerlessness that truly drives me crazy.

I’ve never officially met the family upstairs. But I’ve passed them often enough in the parking lot on their way to or from their noisy door to know what they’re made of: A straight-laced, suit-wearing husband, a heavy Latina of a wife, and two children – two and four years old, maybe? – whose feet I have literally never seen touch pavement. Or anything outdoors, for that matter. No, this family saves their running and playing for the times they’re confined securely in the one thousand square feet directly above my body. With absolutely no regard for the lives going on beneath them, the parents encourage their offspring to run, chase, squeal and stomp through the house; most times, they’re even progressive enough to save playtime for the hours between 9 and 11 in the evening.

Lest I be seen as the crotchety childless woman, I must make mention of the fact that I have no issue with kids being kids. I don’t love the noise, but I can understand it. Many times, I’ve said to Michael, “How can I tell a kid not to play?” But, while I have no issue with the occasional pitter-patter of feet above my head, I have a huge issue with the STOMP STOMP STOMP of feet both big and small at any hour they damn well please.

In all fairness, it’s not totally their fault I can hear them. I really shouldn’t hear their bad parenting choices….I’m sure they don’t realize how swiftly sound can travel from their place to mine. I’m sure the thought never crossed their minds that, when they decided to play “Monster” at 11:30 on a Tuesday night, they never supposed I’d hear the whole thing.

At least I hope they never considered I could hear them. Because then that terrible mother living less than twelve feet from me would know, and not care, that I can hear her scream obscenities at her children. And she’d know that, a few weeks ago, when she screamed at her husband that he’d better find another bitch to be his fucking slave, I could hear the whole thing. When she threatened her sister that she should “DIE, how about THAT, bitch?”; when she told her husband that his whole family could rot in hell; when she told her kid not to “fucking apologize.” I could hear it all. And I sure as shit hope she didn’t know I could hear her.

When the kids cry – blood curdling screaming in the middle of the day, middle of the night, whatever – when she fights with her husband, on the rare occasion they have sex, I am privy to the whole thing. I know that apartment living affords you a view – whether you want it or not – into the lives of your neighbors, but this was more than I bargained for.

Far more, actually. Because this weekend, it hit a fever pitch. She banged on her floor and screamed “Who the fuck do they think they are,” and “fucking complaining about us all the time. It fucking stresses me out,” and, “they harass us EVERY DAY,” and “let them fucking knock on our door again. I’ll fucking open it with a baseball bat,” and, my personal favorite, “that white bitch better know how to fight, because I’ll fucking kill her.”

I can’t be sure that I”m the “white bitch” to whom she’s referring, but I suspect I am. It’s unfair, though, because we’ve actually never formally complained about them. Instead, we tried – at first – to approach them directly. Michael knocked on their door, he tried to speak to the husband. When that didn’t work – when they stopped answering their door (despite their footsteps and screams before and after the knocking), and when the husband scurried past Michael in the parking lot (despite Michael’s calling his name and asking if he has a second) – we took to the time-tested method of fucking banging on the walls.

So we guess that they’d only assume it was the two of us who’d filed a complaint against them – even though Michael and I know for a fact it was their other, adjacent neighbors (a woman who also cries at the hand of their late-night playtime routine) – and we suppose that the “daily harassment” to which they refer is our daily bang on the wall, when their noise gets to be too much to take.

But because of what she said, Michael no longer wants me to walk to or from my car alone. And it prompted us to actually file the complaint she already assumed we’d filed. But what it’s really done is to, ironically, silence me. I don’t want to invite further wrath. I don’t want to add fuel to whatever crazy fire she already has burning.

It doesn’t even matter that the lady in the development office told us not to worry, that they will be moving in two weeks. “Normally,” she said, quietly and secretly, even though it was just us in the office, “I wouldn’t share this sort of information. But considering the circumstances, I should tell you that they’re supposed to leave by March 6th.” I was grateful she told us, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t make me feel any safer.

So because of this awful woman’s shouted threat – directed at me or not – I’m afraid to tell them to shut up. Even now, when they’re screaming so loudly that I can hear them over my music, when their footsteps are so heavy that the flowers Michael gave me last week shake in their vase, I say nothing. Do nothing. It makes me feel helpless and weak – like I wish I was one of those women who didn’t give a shit, who would walk right up to that upstairs monster, look her in her fat eyes and tell her to shut the fuck up. But I’m not. I’m the kind of woman who, now that I’m scared, save even my weakest, most pathetic and passive attempt at speaking up for myself for my blog. I won’t bang on my ceiling, and I’d probably smile at her if she went to punch me in the face. Instead, I’ll bide my time and pray for a moving truck to show up out front within the next few weeks. 

Pray for me.

So, to start, I went ahead and re-wrote the drastically outdated “about me” pages. They’re actually about me, now. Not me, four years ago. And maybe now that my pages talk about who I am now, so can I.

The Justice of the Peace wasn’t my favorite guy in the world. At the rehearsal, while we practiced and waited for the rental company to show up with the tent, tables, chairs and floor, the Justice kept reminding me that he owns a rental company: Shook his head when I told him who I’d hired, told me he would’ve cost me less. “If those guys you hired don’t show up, call me.” It was the day before my wedding; I wasn’t about to cancel my rental company and suddenly hire him. “Oh! Thank god you’re here! et me just cancel all the plans I’ve made over the last six months!” And he very much wanted us all to know that he’d been spoofed on “The Soup” and seen on “Bridezillas.” Twice! “Oh! I didn’t know we had a celebrity at our wedding!”

But none of that mattered when Michael shook my father’s hand, and then took mine. I took Michael’s hand and looked in his wet eyes. I kept smiling and breaking out into nervous, excited giggles. And so did Michael. When the Justice asked us if we were ready, Michael offered a serious “yes,” while I gave a loud “LET’S DO THIS!” A rumble of laughter and a couple of “Woohoos!” erupted from our friends and family. Under our breath, and during the prayer, we said we loved each other. Michael whispered, “I can’t believe how beautiful you look,” and tucked a stray hair back behind my ear.

Our whole ceremony elicited laughs from our guests, and I felt like we were us – not some stuffy, somber version of us – during our vows. And when he pronounced us man and wife, we shared a full-on kiss. “We’re married!” I said to Michael as Lilly passed me my bouquet, Stevie Wonder started playing and we smiled our way back down the aisle.

We didn’t really know where to go, so we just sort of stopped halfway between the wedding and Michael’s grandparents’ house. We shared one quiet little moment, and then our wedding party was with us, and then our families, and then our guests. And it was a flurry of hugs and kisses and “here’s your beer!” and “Let me get a picture!” and “I can’t believe you’re married.” Somewhere, someone has a picture of Marty holding my flowers, and me drinking his beer. The party had begun.

The DJ fired up the cocktail hour music and the guests all gathered beneath the tent, where appetizers were out and drinks were chilling. I gathered my bulky dress in my arms, and in my blue, five-inch heels, walked with Michael and the photographer around the farm for pictures. Lilly was the kind of Maid of Honor I dreamed she would be: She brought me snacks – making sure I ate – and sips of her drink while we posed for pictures. And after just about a half hour, it was time to go to the party.

Pitbull’s “Give Me Everything” pumped through the tent and out into the farm, and the DJ called out our wedding party one-by-one. And then it was our turn. I’d already kicked of my shoes, and danced my way into the wedding with my new husband. My cheeks hurt from smiling so much. But I couldn’t stop. At the DJ’s instruction, we all went to the bridal table and posed for “the paparazzi.” All of our friends and family crowded onto the dancefloor with their cameras, flashbulbs igniting, shutters closing, over and over. I felt like a celebrity. I felt like a queen. I felt loved and excited.

My 92 year old grandfather – my Dad’s dad – had made it to the wedding. And his sister, whose health is fading, made it too. My mom’s sister from New Orleans made the trip, and my mom’s brother and mother from Louisville made sure to come. The whole family was gathered, as well as friends from California, New York City, Baltimore, Philadelphia, West Point, Pennsylvania, Florida, Alabama…I was overwhelmed. All of these people, all of this time and trouble, because they love Michael and me. How lucky could we possibly be?

The caterer brought Michael and I some plates of food and the rest of the guests were invited to help themselves. And then it was time for toasts. “You might want tocharge two glasses,” the DJ said. “There are a lot of people who want to say something.”

It was five people, actually. My father went first. He welcomed Michael into the family, and said he couldn’t have chosen a better person for his little girl. To hear his voice crack with tears over the speakers was too much. I cried while we toasted our new marriage. I was next. I gave that toast I said I was going to give to my mom; the unsung hero of this wedding. And then it was Byers’ turn. Who tearfully told us all who we hated each other as kids, but grew to be best friends; how we got Scorpion tattoos together, and how I took care of him while he was in Afghanistan, and how he wouldn’t have made it without me. And how his standards for the man I would marry are high, and how Michael meets every one. Surpasses them, even. And how excited he is to have a new brother. A young man in uniform, in tears, can bring a crowd to its knees. He did.

Ray, Michael’s brother, was next. He said it’s crazy how these two families already feel like one. How my mom has already started pressuring him to marry his longtime girlfriend, so it’s like we already ARE one family. And he said Michael and I couldn’t be more perfect for each other.

Lilly was last. She took the microphone, cleared her throat and unfurled the papers on which her speech was written. She gave the most beautiful, heartfelt toast I ever could’ve dreamed of. And those months of my frustration at her lack of help just melted away. She said the most lovely things, how living with her best friend for a year and a half was like a slumber party every night, how she can email with me all day and still have more to say to me. How, when we lived together, she could hear me laugh through the walls and knew then that Michael was the man for me; because only someone who can make me laugh like that, and take care of me like he does, deserves me.

My tears were full, honest and unrelenting.

But I had no idea that the worst (best?) was yet to come.

Michael and I were called over for the cake cutting, which we did awkwardly and without much excitement. It was just a means to an end as far as we were concerned. He fed me the one and only bite I’d take of our red velvet cake, and I did the same for him. We did not smash the cake into each other’s faces.

And while we laughed at how anticlimactic it was, the DJ said it was time for the first dance. Michael and I swayed on the floor, turning in lazy circles, singing to one another the words of “That’s How Strong My Love Is.” We kissed as the music came to an end…And then the DJ called for the father-daughter dance. And there was my Daddy, in his uniform, extending his hand to me. And every dream I’d ever had of my wedding day came to life.

Because, sure, I dreamed of my husband. But I always dreamed of my father-daughter dance. I’m my daddy’s little girl, and the meaning of the moment, to me, is monumental. It’s so heavy with bittersweet joy; I’ve been his girl for 30 years, and every father-daughter function of my youth came flooding back to me. The fact that I would give up his name and take Michael’s. His age. Mine. The fact that, like every time I’d imagined it, he was in his blues, and I was in a beautiful white dress.

And Tim McGraw’s “My Little Girl,” a song I’d chosen without any say-so from him, started playing. And I laid my head on my daddy’s shoulder – my wet cheek against the ribbons and pins that catalogue his accomplishments – and enjoyed the moment. We turned in the slow circles that fathers and daughters usually do, and he surprised me when, after Tim sang, “You’ve had me wrapped around your finger since the day you were born,” Daddy, with tears in his throat, said, “It’s true.”

My father doesn’t listen to words of songs. And yet there he was, listening to every word that was being sung, feeling every syllable just like me. I cried in earnest then, and held my daddy tight. He held me right back. And every photo of that dance shows both us with tear-stained faces, alternately crying and laughing at ourselves.

“I do this every weekend,” the DJ said to my friend Lee. “And I never cry at the father-daughter dance. I don’t know why this one made me cry like a baby.” He wasn’t the only one; there wasn’t a dry-eye in the house. I walked off the floor feeling badly because our dance all but eclipsed Michael’s first dance with his Mom.

And then the dances were done, and the tears all dried up. Night had creeped in while we cried and danced and laughed, and revealed all of the trees that Michael had wrapped in little white lights. The torches Grandpa had put around the lake came to life, their flames reflecting in the smooth water. Between the candles on every table, the torches and the twinkling trees, the place was a wonderland; something out of a magazine. Something out of a dream.

And then the music started.

From the first note of the first song, the dance floor was packed. My brother was ready to party. My husband was ready. My friends. My family. EVERYONE.

I think the true measure of a party is who you see on the dance floor. And everyone from my father – who literally never dances – to Michael’s grandparents to my 14-year-old cousin and my 50-something uncle were out there. The floor positively shook with the weight of so many people, jumping and singing and laughing. And every song was better than the last; every song was someone’s favorite.

I danced so much that I changed into a dress I bought, just in case. It was a smaller wedding dress, something straight out of the fifties; still bridal, but its tea length skirt was a far cry from the lace-up back and enormous bustle of my wedding dress. And even in that dress I was sweating in the face of the low-60 degree evening. I couldn’t stop dancing…

But there was a moment where I did stop, where I stepped off of the dance floor to take a sip of wine, and looked at the floor. Hardly any bodies were in the chairs. They were all up on the dance floor, arms in the air, full smiles, yelling the lyrics of the song. It was the kind of moment I’d been picturing when I thought of how I wanted our wedding to be. My mom was dancing with Michael’s cousin. My grandmother was corralling Michael’s grandfather with her scarf. My girlfriend and Michael’s uncle were dancing on the support pole for the tent. Everyone was sweating and laughing and…truly enjoying themselves. So I got back out there to enjoy it with them.

The only time of the evening that the floor wasn’t crowded was when our guests lit and released about twenty miniature hot-air balloons for us. Michael’s cousin had brought them, and when they were all released, it was this trail of floating lanterns in the sky. Michael and I released one together, smiling and arm-in-arm.

And then it was back to the dance floor. My brother’s uniform kept losing pieces – first his tie, then his blouse was unbuttoned, then his t-shirt had a tiny rip, and then four or five guests took turns ripping his t-shirt off of him – even though his blouse was still on. They succeeded. And my friend Carlos tied a piece of it around his bald head, Rambo-style.

Looking at my pictures – the one of Carlos with the headband in particular – I see that I had exactly the wedding I wanted. We paid the DJ to stay later. A family member went on a booze run. People were drinking straight out of the bottles when the caterer left with the glasses. All you could hear for miles was our music and our laughing. Every picture I have shows everyone smiling, pointing at each other, holding bottles, laughing hard and earnestly, or with full-on I-Don’t-Care-Who’s-Watching dance faces. It was exactly what I wanted to see when I looked back at my wedding.

And at the end of the night, exhausted and drunk only on the high of an incredible time, I rode back to the hotel with my parents and my new husband.

I didn’t have it in me to take down my hair or wash my face; I could only unzip my dress and crawl into the waiting arms of the man whose last name I now share. And he kissed my salty forehead and said, “Anna, you planned an amazing party. Everything was perfect. I can’t think of a better way to kick off our life together. I love you so much. I’m so lucky to be your husband.”

But I’m the lucky one. In so many ways.

But it was real. Every moment of it. And even now, just about two weeks later, I’m still sort of afraid to say how perfect it was, as though there’s going to be some retroactive jinxing that’ll happen. As though talking about how the whole day was perfect would cause time to pause, rewind and record over that day with dreary skies, a lackluster party, and a night that ended early and without excitement.

Of course, I know that can’t happen. I know that nothing I talk about now could possibly change what has been the greatest day of my life so far.

No matter what I say, the weather itself will still be beyond-belief beautiful.  Of the five days we spent in Kentucky, our wedding day was the only day that wasn’t cold, windy and rainy. The sky on the morning of our wedding was as cartoon-perfect as the opening of The Simpsons: Bright baby blue with just enough cotton-ball-white clouds to make it three-dimensional. The air was dry and warm, the sun just bright enough to take away yesterday’s chill, but not bright enough to take away the cool edge of the warmth. From ceremony to reception, it was warm and clear and bright. The kind of day you would order if you could.

Which was nice because the day before, we went through the rehearsal wearing sweatshirts and running inside to escape the brisk wind. And the day after, the sun barely poked out from behind gray skies, and the sticky humidity was punctuated by intermittent drizzles. Our wedding day was a lottery-ticket win.

But it was more than just the weather that I couldn’t believe: The entire day, from rising to sleeping, was everything I hoped – but wasn’t sure – it could be. I woke up early – 5:30. Damn excitement. – and went down to breakfast in the hotel. It was the hotel I’d chosen for myself and for the entire group of our guests, sight unseen. My first night there I was pleasantly surprised with how friendly and accommodating the staff was, how large the rooms were, and how easy it was to navigate to every place we needed to be for the wedding. And the day of the wedding, there was an impromptu meeting of me and the rest of my wedding guests for breakfast. We had bagels and fruit and talked about the day ahead of us. After a leisurely excited breakfast, my mom, Maid of Honor and I departed – Mimosa fixins in hand – for our hair appointment with my mother and sister-in-law.

And I sat in that chair, with a stylist I’d never met or heard of or checked out, and had complete faith that it would work out. That she would do what I wanted. I showed her a picture, took the Mimosa Lilly made for me, and settled in to start really enjoying my day. While curling my hair, my stylist asked me questions about the wedding, my plans, our life. And as I explained to her that all I wanted out of the day was a big party where everyone – including me – had the time of their lives, she stopped curling my hair, met my eyes in the mirror, and said: “I don’t think I’ve ever had such a relaxed, happy bride in my chair. You are so laid back and calm. I can’t believe it. Good for you!” And I sipped my Mimosa and nodded, satisfied. For the past two weeks – while I freaked out at Michael and my friends and myself over every detail and nuance of the wedding day ahead of us – I’d been picturing myself – visualizing myself – as a calm bride, eager to enjoy my day. And sitting in that chair, it was clear that I was exactly the person I’d been hoping to be.

The faith I had in the stylist was well-placed. She did exactly what I wanted. We all left the salon with the hair we’d all hoped for, and headed back to the hotel for lunch. We met with some of our out-of-town guests for some sandwiches in the lobby…and I kept checking the clock, sure that we had somehow fallen behind schedule. But, nope. There it was, only 1:00. The wedding wasn’t till 5. I actually did have time. So we enjoyed ourselves and then went our separate ways to get ready. At 2:00, I started applying my makeup. I sat in my hotel room, alone – by choice – with some music playing, applying my makeup by the sunlight pouring in through my open window.

And I have this habit, whenever I’m doing my makeup for some important event – a birthday dinner, a holiday, a party – I fuck it up royally. I spill black eyeshadow down my cheek. I make one  eye smoky – by accident. I get mascara all over my lids. SOMETHING. But on this day? Everything was perfect. My eyeliner was smooth and even. My accent shadow was subtle and effective. My foundation was smooth, my blush was natural but contouring. My lipstick was shiny without looking frosted. Everything was just perfect.

And when it came time to put on my dress, even though I had to put it on over my head, my hair and makeup stayed intact. Lilly and my mom laced me without hassle and, before I knew it, I was a bride. A happy, excited bride; eager for the time to pass so I could marry the man of my dreams.

And my brother – my Man of Honor – came into the room in his Army uniform, looking like such an adult…such a handsome man. I cried at the sight of him, and he cried at the sight of me, and he hugged me tight and told me that he couldn’t have chosen a better man for me, and there’s no one he’d rather have in this family, as his brother, but Michael. The photographer snapped away while we wiped away our tears and started to laugh.

Just as I collected myself, I heard my mother’s voice from the hallway: “Anna, there’s a handsome gentleman here to see you.” And in walked my father, in full-on Dress Blues. Black jacket, blue pants with a yellow stripe down the side, black bow tie, Major oak leaves on his shoulders. My face crumpled into tears. I didn’t know he was going to wear his uniform; they’d told me it was too small for him now and that he’d be wearing a suit. I had a boutonniere for him and everything. But there he was, in his Army uniform, just like the way I’d dreamed it would be since I was a little girl. And he looked so handsome…So unbelievably handsome. I couldn’t believe it. I hugged him tight, and heard his tears on my shoulder. We backed up to look at each other, both of our eyes red and watery. “Well thanks, Daddy! Now my perfect makeup is ruined!” I joked, swatting the starched arm of his uniform. “Well, that’s why I figured I’d get this out of the way now, so you could fix it!”

It was perfect.

My mom looked radiant in her green dress, and Lilly was the perfect accent to my mom and me in her jade dress. “Hey,” Lilly said, as she gathered my extensive train to make the trip downstairs, “YOU’RE GETTING MARRIED TODAY!!!!” She screamed it and my mom, dad, brother and I all laughed and clapped. It was like something out of a movie.

We collected our bouquets – which looked exactly as I’d hoped they would. Despite the fact that I never met my florist before the moment she gave me the flowers, and despite the fact we had but ONE phone conversation, she delivered precisely the flowers I’d been dreaming of. Almost casual looking, they were a bundle of bright jewel tones, that had the feel of flowers someone just picked from a field. They were big and bright and natural, exactly what I wanted to carry down the aisle. – and rode in one big group down to the lobby.

Our out-of-town guests had all collected in the lobby as well, hoping to caravan to the wedding either in or behind the large van we rented for the occasion. I, myself, would be riding in a black Lincoln with my family. A car also rented just for the occasion. But it was still early, and the photographer took a few pictures of me alone, and then me with my family, some of my friends, and my wedding party. And as we smiled and laughed in the doorway of the hotel, a group of families – four or five adults and a handful of kids – walked past us. In a moment that I only believe now because other people saw it, too, the little boy in the group stopped dead in his tracks and pointed at me, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. “Look at the princess, Daddy!” We all laughed, but it was possibly my favorite moment of the day so far. I felt just like one.

The guests left for the wedding and, shortly thereafter, we in the wedding party piled into our cars to make our entrance. And we were on time. My cell phone chimed with a text from my friend Lee, and I smiled when I read her note of reassurance: “Everything is perfect, Anna. You’re going to love it.” She’d been posted at the farm all day, setting up the mason jars and vases that she found for me, making sure the tables were in the right places, hanging paper lanterns, directing the caterer and the florist and setting up the open bar. SHE was the reason I was such a calm, happy bride. I knew I had her looking out for me, and that I had nothing to worry about. And, anyway, it was too late to worry. Now, I was getting married.

We pulled into the farm, and my dad and I stayed in the car just a bunch of foliage away from the ceremony space we’d created on Michael’s grandparents’ farm. Seventy five white chairs sat in six perfect rows of 12, the aisle in the center running straight toward a sprawling tree, adorned with glass lanterns, just for the occasion. Behind the tree, the lake glittered in the sunlight. And when Ray Charles’ “Come Rain or Come Shine” started, the mothers – my mother and Michael’s mom and stepmom – walked down the aisle and took their places. Al Green started signing “Here I Am (Come and Take Me)” and the bridal party descended on the ceremony. First,  Byers took the arm of Michael’s sister, Carly, and walked to the tree, where Byers stood on my side, and Carly stood on Michael’s. Then Lilly stood between Michael’s two brothers – Ray and Joseph – and walked to their places beneath the tree. And then it was Otis Redding, “Come to Me.” My dad put his arm out for me to take, and with tears in both of our eyes, we rounded the corner to my wedding.

The walk to and down the aisle was long. I could hear my dad sniffling and swallowing his tears, and couldn’t keep my own from falling. My veil fluttered in the wind, in my face and behind me, and I smiled through my tears – which were a mix of happy and excited and a little sad – at all of my friends, standing from their seats, smiling and snapping pictures of my dad and me.  I couldn’t belive it was happening, but at the same time, it felt oh-so-natural. Daddy and I stopped in front of the Justice of the Peace, in front of Michael. And Daddy barely choked out “Her Mother and I Do” when the Justice asked us who gave this bride away. He lifted my veil, kissed my cheek, and passed my hand to my new husband.