At the swamp, the deep blue sky reflected in the water enclosed by the green abundant cinnamon ferns. Suzi is cleared for returning to our walks and trots happily through the tall meadow grass ahead of me and Charlie. June, June, June, is fresh and the morning sky gleaming blue. Thirty one years ago tonight I slept in my parent's house on Brush Hill Road in the family room with my gang of brides maids awaiting my wedding. My last night single. Frank slept in a hotel nearby with his mother and Nana. My parents, exhausted, slept in their room after giving us our rehearsal dinner in Boston.
A night of tremendous happiness and joy, so confident I was in my choice. And such a tumult of emotion: how to leave, the next day, for a honeymoon and move, to leave the little house I'd grown up in, and the parents I loved so much and my brothers and sisters and New England and June, to move to Florida into all the unknown of creating new life, a new job, a new family?
And now they are gone, my parents, and the house on Brush Hill Road across town belongs to strangers; but here we are, back in the landscape I love so dearly, with our children near who love it dearly as well, and even though two of them were born in Florida, they are New Englanders true and true. And so, now, is he, my husband from Florida, who wanted to make a home here with me.
What a lovely wedding reception they gave us in the yard I played in for all the growing up years, here in this town. I'm certain I thanked them. I'm sure not as much as they deserved. Perhaps we'll give one, or more of our children a wedding, here, by the river, in this yard of our home.