I’ll Dance At Your Wedding

Spring. A time of “re’s”: renewal, rejoicing, rebirth. I love spring. Or, I used to. So did she. This was my thought process as I stumbled from my warm, comfy bed to the bathroom. I didn’t notice the out of place bright sunshine streaming through the window: a window that should have been shaded by bushy tree foliage. My faithful dog, not in quite his usual place, looked at me reproachfully when I tripped on his tail. I noticed that. Darn old mastiff trying to kill me. Me: seventy-eight. Him: twelve. To be fair that equates to about eighty four in people time so, maybe he’s the forgetful one. He’s got as much grey in his fur as I do. And … forgetful enough to be lying on the wrong side of the bed. I think. Sometimes I forget.

Deep, dark, kind, doggy eyes in a wrinkly brown and grey furry face, their usual loving devotion replaced with confused hurt, met mine as I landed on the, luckily, soft carpet right in front of him. This, of course, took a masterful feat of gymnastic legerdemain to achieve. Gravity tried to insist I land full force square on his body. But, it’s Spring…, so I sprung. A midair twist that would give credit to a 20 year old enabled me to - painfully, mind you - land next to him, angled in such a fashion as to not break his old back. We stared deep into each other’s eyes. I haven’t stared so raptly into anyone’s eyes since Margaret passed four months back. Dear Margaret, now resting peacefully under the willow outside my bedroom window. Coletrane’s tail wagged. A warm pink tongue gave my face a good morning wash. Despite my twinging hip, I grinned, shoved his face away, and gave him a pat on his head. With a grunt, I pushed up, gripped the bed frame with an arthritis riddled hand, and arose - wiping my doggy spittle laden face. I turned on the light. No use tempting fate.

“Good boy Coltrane. And…, yuck. Cut it out.” Coletrane woofed lightly. I knew he was laughing at me. Dang mutt has a sense of humor. Good thing since it’s gotten me through the last four months. My eyes teared as I once again, as always, thought about Margaret. Fifty eight wonderful years. The best years of my life. Every single one… well: Maybe not that year I lost my job for six months. Aaaannndd…, maybe not when the doc told us we couldn’t have children. Regardless, she was my universe. “I love you Margaret. I always have. I always will,” I whispered through the lump in my throat.

As I listened to the splash of warm, aromatic liquid mixing with the cool water in my porcelain necessity, I wiped tired eyes with the back of a gnarled hand. With a satisfied sigh and a happier bladder, I tucked myself away and proceeded to my morning ablutions.

“Coletrane. Ready to go out old boy?” The dog glanced at me, stubby tail drumming on the carpet. A minor cloud of dust danced like a chorus line in a beam of sunlight. In my mind I reverted to a day seventy eight years back. Seventy eight years ago today. The day I married the most perfect woman in the world. A smiling pair of twenty year olds joined the promenade of dancing motes; each with eyes solely for the other. Oblivious to the mass of well wishing, mostly inebriated, wedding attendees. 1948, June 6th. The song: ‘I’ll Dance At Your Wedding” sung by the incomparable Peggy Lee.

Dang Steve. Steve Martin - comedic, but no relation to a certain “poor, black, farm boy”. Steve was my best friend since 10th grade - age 16 - and had once dated Margaret for a spell. They went out for three or four months in our junior year of high school. After a mutual, and, thankfully, amicable split I waited an eternity - two whole months - before asking Margaret Wiseman out. Longest two months of my life - maybe the longest five months counting the time she was with Steve.

When I asked Steve if I could ask out his ex {BroCode you understand} he had laughed. “What took you so long?”

I shuffled my feet sheepishly. Sixteen years old, full of hormones, and in mad lust …, uhm…, love. But: “Bro Code,” I replied; head canted down, cheeks flushed. My heart raced. Palms sweaty.

Steve guffawed. Yes - guffawed. Loudly. Then he clapped me on the shoulder. By the way, that hurt. I was skinny. Steve was a varsity wrestler. Yep - the odd couple. “Anthony, it’s fine. I’ll dance at your wedding.” More prophetic words…

My heart soared. I grinned hugely. Unsuccessfully, I tried to play it cool. “Thanks man.”

Two years after high school, I married Margaret Wiseman-Thibedeau. Yes, I’m Anthony Thibedeau: arthritic widower and the luckiest man alive. Steve laughed the entire time Peggy Lee sang that song about dancing at an ex lover’s wedding celebration. Then he cut in. What a defecation masticating grin he had on his devilishly gleeful face. Even Margaret thought it was hilarious.

“WOOF!”

Shaking out of my reverie, I hitched up my sweatpants. “Sorry Coletrane. Guess the Duke’s are in a hazardous sitcheeayshun.” As Coletrane struggled to his shaky old paws, I glanced at the East facing window outside of which was Margaret’s favorite old willow …, and…, Margaret’s earthly remains.

A single branch hung there, swaying in a slight breeze. A branch shining gold in the morning sun. The bright burnished gold color that matched Margaret’s flowing hair. Even into her mid sixties her lustrous hair had retained that sheen. I smiled wistfully. But…, that’s not the willows normal color. And… where are all the leafy branches that normally block that early morning sun? I was curious, but, not frightened. In my soul, my lonely center, I knew it was okay.

Coletrane stared, quizically cocking his head to one side, as I walked to the window. One golden branch where there should be fifty delicately soft green ones. As I placed a shaking hand on the window I felt cool dampness. Morning dew collected on the glass. On the other side of the glass, encapsulated by my own image - an image of me from fifty eight years back - `was my beautiful Margaret. Smiling. Twenty years old. The most ravishingly beautiful thing in my entire universe. On her hand a brand new wedding ring. A translucent finger of that well-remembered, beloved hand reached to the glass. I swear I felt the warmth as a finger traced the words, “Happy Anniversary Love,” in the runnelled condensation.

Coletrane padded up next to me, tongue lolling. Glancing down I saw a goofy grin. Coletrane’s tongue, dripping drool, hung from one side of his mouth. Stubby as it was, his tail somehow managed to wag his entire hindquarters. I chuckled.

Looking back up, I saw my own wrinkle-lined old face staring at me. The willow was in full soft green glory. Morning sunlight dappled gently on the glass, muted by its passage through the branches of reverie. I sighed as the last of my beloved Margaret’s message slowly vanished in mist.

“Soon my love,” I promised. “Soon.”

Ignoring the hitching in my breath, and my knees, I reluctantly turned away. “Come on Coletrane. Let’s go. You can relieve your bladder while I visit Margaret.” Together we walked out. This old dog and this old widower. But, she was there. Right next to me. Right where my beloved Margaret belonged. Even Coletrane knew it as he kept glancing to her side of me. Ghostly fingers entwined in mine.

“Happy anniversary dear Margaret,” I said quietly as I felt the chilling, yet warm, brush of plump lips on my cheek. “Out Coletrane old boy. We’ve got an anniversary to celebrate.”

Smiling for real for the first time in four months, I painfully knelt by the headstone. Behind me an old greying mastiff relieved his own bladder in Spring grass.