Our lives are often marked by ceremonies, the stepping stones to a new era, a new adventure, a new challenge, a celebration to set the stage. Birth, baptism, bridal bouquets — they leave indelible marks in our lives and in those around us. Some are anticipated with joy and excitement, some … with dread and disbelief.
I am walking down the aisle, noticing the beautiful flowers decorating the pathway. It's going to be such a lovely ceremony, just like she wanted. I hear my friends from the night before: “Don't do it!” “The old ball and chain.” “Tying the knot … on your own noose!” Irreverent, scared little boys fearing the commitment of growing up, jealous of losing me; jealous of my future. I'm the first of our group to take the plunge. They'll always be there with me — I just hope they dive in soon and join me on the other side. It's going to be such a wonderful life.
I hear the clatter around me in the bridal March. Somehow I feel like I'm floating, like I've been here before. Deja vu it must be the shock of the moment. The light is so bright I can barely see the beautiful white visage smiling at me from the end of the aisle. This is a sight I will always remember, to cherish for the rest of my life. I never thought I would make it, that I would be here — in love — after the life I had been through.
The rings, do I have them? Am I supposed to be carrying them? They seem so heavy why am I walking up the aisle, shouldn't this be she? The shock of the moment is clouding my vision, my sense of reality.
“Don't do it!” I would cry, as my dad went after her again. I pounded on his back and impotently. I just know, glad of the fact, they I’ll never be like him. Not with this wonderful woman — barely but a girl — who I love so much, as she looks up at me with adoring eyes.
We reached the end of the aisle when I stop. Through my tears and the bright lights ahead I find it hard to see. Is she really there? “Don't do it!” she cries as the gavel is swung by the judge. Wait, is this just a Justice of the Peace ceremony? I thought you wanted a chapel wedding like you had dreamed of for years.
“Stop! Don't do it!” her sister yells, pounding on my back. I'm so confused. Fired from my job, I stole from the petty cash and cashed it in for a fifth of Jack Daniel’s. Embarrassed, shamed, I'm grasping at straws to feel strong, in control period to assert my place as head of this home. Third job in four months. What do they want? This can't be happening to me!
At the end of the aisle, the man in black comes forward to offer his benediction. Do I have the rings? Yes, but they are so big … so heavy. Am I supposed to be wearing them on my wrists?
The gate clangs closed behind me and another clutter is away in front. Where's my mother shouldn't she be here to celebrate? And my wife, my bride …
The last thing I remember was her yelling to the judge, “Don't do it!” No such luck, this crime carries a mandatory three-year sentence. I'm pushed forward, past the bright lights. Past the illusion into a very real and hard gray hell, a noose of my own tying. A cell with no celebration.
Domestic abuse — it shames me. I hate it, feeling like the little boy pounding on my own back, “Stop! Don't do it!” Here I am, stripped and searched, the new ceremonial prison intake at the end of the aisle at the start of a gloomy three-year honeymoon, wondering who I'll be when I get out.
Will I grow up , grow out of the past? Conquer my demons and emerge out the other side a new man, in control and reconciled with my past? Ready to repent, to do the penance due, ask for forgiveness and … forgive the little boy who could do no more than cry, “Don't do it!”
I await the ceremony of that day to come, counting the days, day-by-day, praying that my bride will be there at the other side of the aisle. That I will emerge on the other side, man changed for the better will I make it? Will I make it? Will I be? Day-by-day, I wait to see a new celebration a new ceremony for me. | TD
This piece weaves time into an ever present memory. Very powerful. The writer's honesty included in the text (and texture) of his writing makes me think he'll make it. Yeah, he'll make it.