Wedlock

It was hardly the wedding Sallah deserved, on the day we got married.

We'd dreamed, she and I, of the day we would join our lives together in the eyes of God, our families, and the world. Sunlight would shine through the stained glass windows of Saint Charlotte's Cathedral, painting the air beautiful jewel tones. Flowers would fill the air with the aroma of romance: roses, lavender, and honeysuckle.

Sallah would be radiant in her white silk gown, her glorious riot of curls held in check by the tiny sparkling sapphires and diamonds set into her grandmother's antique hair snood. I would be breathtaking in a dove-grey morning suit, or so my love always swore. I knew the truth, however. No matter how good I would look, and when we were doing the dreaming I was vain enough to know that I did look good when I tried...no matter how good I looked – no one would have eyes for anyone but Sallah.

The sonorous sounds of the one hundred-pipe pipe organ would surround us all and the lilting chords of the harp would carry my bride to me.

That would have been the wedding worthy of the love of my life.

It was not the wedding we got.

Instead of sunlight filtering through stained glass windows, rain poured in through the holes left by missing shingles in the old barn roof.

Rather than the seductive sweetness of honeysuckle or the lingering perfume of English roses, our noses were clogged by the fetid mustiness of stale hay.

My sister and Sallah's best friend were our only witnesses and a more than half-senile priest our officiant. Father Anthony Brown had presided over both my grandparents' wedding and that of Sallah's parents but it had been more than twenty years since he'd performed any kind of service.

Sallah wore neither white silk, nor diamond and sapphire hair ornament. Even in the oversized sweater dress she'd worn for the past week, Sallah was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered –" Father Brown's thin reedy voice was hard to hear over the plop plop of the steady rain and whistle of the wind coming through the walls.

More than twenty years, and still he remembers the words of the holy ceremony.

Bethany and Sean held hands as they huddled together straining to hear the good Father over the weather. I'd tried to convince them to get married at the same time as us, to let us be their witness as they were ours. Bethany refused, saying that Sallah deserved to have something about her wedding be special since neither my parents nor Sallah’s would acknowledge us despite the invitations we’d hand-delivered. Their wedding would be in a few days, and our parents weren’t invited.

"Is there any reason that this man should not wed this woman? If so, speak now or forever hold your peace."

In the sudden silence as wind and rain both ceased, an old bull let out an angry bellow from somewhere in the pasture. Sallah looked at me with her eyes sparkling with mirth. "I don't think that counts, do you?" The rest of us laughed while Father Brown tutted disapprovingly.

"It is time to make your vows to God and each other."

The rest of the ceremony faded away then. I only had eyes for Sallah's beautiful face. I must have repeated my lines correctly, though I could not have said what they were because soon Father Brown was announcing us as man and wife.

I leaned down to kiss Sallah's lips, the swell of our child in her belly pressed against my abdomen.

"I'm sorry it wasn't what we dreamed of Sallah." I whispered when we broke the kiss.

She leaned up to kiss me this time, grinning as a tiny fist punched my kidney.

"I don't care that it's a broken down barn Mattias. It was perfect, because we're finally married."

She was right, as always.