Wednesday, March 9, 2011

Words That Matter

This poem is the one I'll miss most at our wedding.  For a few reasons, we came to an agreement that doesn't work in our ceremony. But I feel like I'll be carrying it with me. It captures something of the awe and fear and wonder. Of the hugeness. Of how this is a ceremony that changes nothing about our commitment to each other - one we forged years ago - but that it matters. Of how our parents marriages echo for us (even if the metaphor here isn't a precise fit). Of how weddings are fulcrum points in a life, making you pause and look back to birth and forward to death. Of how weddings and relationships aren't about mushy love, but also about passion, deeply terrifying promises, and hope.


The Wedding Vow

I did not stand at the altar, I stood
at the foot of the chancel steps, with my beloved,
and the minister stood on the top step
holding the open Bible. The church
was wood, painted ivory inside, no people—God's
stable perfectly cleaned. It was night,
spring—outside, a moat of mud,
and inside, from the rafters, flies
fell onto the open Bible, and the minister
tilted it and brushed them off. We stood
beside each other, crying slightly
with fear and awe. In truth, we had married
that first night, in bed, we had been
married by our bodies, but now we stood
in history—what our bodies had said,
mouth to mouth, we now said publicly,
gathered together, death. We stood
holding each other by the hand, yet I also
stood as if alone, for a moment,
just before the vow, though taken
years before, took. It was a vow
of the present and the future, and yet I felt it
to have some touch on the distant past
or the distant past on it, I felt
the silent, dry, crying ghost of my
parents' marriage there, somewhere
in the bright space—perhaps one of the
plummeting flies, bouncing slightly
as it hit forsaking all others, then was brushed
away. I felt as if I had come
to claim a promise—the sweetness I'd inferred
from their sourness; and at the same time that I had
come, congenitally unworthy, to beg.
And yet, I had been working toward this hour
all my life. And then it was time
to speak—he was offering me, no matter
what, his life. That is all I had to
do, that evening, to accept the gift
I had longed for—to say I had accepted it,
as if being asked if I breathe. Do I take?
I do. I take as he takes—we have been
practicing this. Do you bear this pleasure? I do.


by Sharon Olds

2 comments:

  1. No words for this one. On a day when I am very much over this whole wedding thing altogether, I remembered WHY. Thank you.

    ReplyDelete

I love active conversations, including (civil) disagreement. I don't love spam or people who use internet anonymity to be rude and disparaging. Spam and rudeness will be deleted.