All Around My Island

Dresses are being hemmed, vows are being written, and the mailbox is brimming with delicate invitations requesting your presence. The spring/summer wedding season has officially arrived and Bryan and I attended the first ceremony of many to come last Sunday. As the beauty of the bride and the euphoric emotion of the ceremony fill my both my heart and eyes to the brim like a waitress topping off a coffee with a little too much enthusiasm, I can’t help but reminisce about my own.       

In the myriad of moments that preceded it all, I was your typical mixture of nerves and excitement, with a special emphasis on the nerve portion of the potion. The concept of a mishap occurring was buried so far under the cloud of chaos that had invaded my mind, it had gone undetected. No form of notice had been set forth: no alarms had been sounded. Therefore, I was completely unprepared for any problematic occurrence. I was ignorant to how bumpy the road I was about to embark down actually was; I was unaware the walk down the aisle was riddled with so many obstacles.

The first hurdle set before me was placed with good intention by my escort. The wedding party had safely made it to the target destination, and we were alone. My brother gently took my trembling hands in his and with a few select phrases erased all the composure I had been holding onto so tightly just seconds before. He gave standard words of love and congratulations, finishing with a mention of how proud he was of me, and how he knew our belated father shared his opinions. Suddenly, tears filled my eyes like a bathtub faucet that had long been forgotten. I tilted my head back in hopes to find a magical drain in which the sadness and joy that had taken a liquid form could vanish, but it was no use; my dam had been broken and I was leaking like a faulty spigot in the sink.

With tears trickling down my face resembling salty little raindrops, we took our initial step out into the blinding light of smiles and ran. A combination of his anxiety and my emotion sent us up to the alter at speeds that rivaled Olympic athletes. The hand off was completed and I was ascending two miniscule stairs when I located my next glitch. The Bo-Peep concoction, appropriately referred to as a slip, maneuvered its way closer to the ground causing me to stumble up the set of steps that had previously seemed so diminutive. I was discreetly rescued from a brutal collision with the runner by my man of the hour and we were in place.

Having made it to my groom with little more damage than some tear stained cheeks burning crimson with embarrassment; we began the ceremony. This too proved to have its own minor malfunctions awaiting my arrival. The heat of discomfiture was causing my palms to produce massive amounts of moisture and my fingers to inflate like tiny little balloons. This inopportune combination made the placing of the ring a particularly difficult task. We fidgeted in frustration until the dampness of my hands that had previously been causing me so much despair aided in completing the task.

Having successfully situated our symbols of love and fidelity, our ceremony traveled nearer to a close. As the finale approached, we were greeted with mispronunciations, murmurs, and nervous sighs being greatly magnified by the microphone that had ignored all other things spoken throughout the evening, as well as an obstinate candle that refused our attempts to ignite it. What type of omen would it be if the flame that represented our union refused to stay alight? Seconds rolled by with the force that accompanies hours of boredom as we waited for our little glimmer of hope to stay ablaze. The sanctuary had long grown silent and the confusion of the crowd collided with the awkward wonder of what we were to do next. At last, the flame grew stronger, feeding off the air we were refusing to breathe, and we proceeded.

We each exhaled huge heavy sighs of relief, and I felt a warm content fill the newly vacant space within my lungs; a satisfaction in knowing the goal we had set forth nine months prior was about to be reached. We sealed the whole fiasco with a kiss as my vale floated delicately to the floor with the grace of a misty little cloud. My maid of honor inconspicuously dove to its rescue; placing it among her already article laden arms. She was now precariously balancing my recently lost garment, my bouquet, and her own mass of flowers. Unaware of my most recent loss, and without attempting to retrieve anything else, I took my new husband’s hand and turned to welcome the awaiting world. 

Eagerly, we set off down the same aisle I had believed was so treacherous a mere fraction of an hour before, my mind once again a blur of sentiment. Each uncomfortable occurrence that had taken place was immediately a whimsical memory. Although things had begun with a customary fear and anticipation, they had been met with humorous misfortune and mishap. Surprisingly, I unequivocally understood how no bride could ever endure a truly unpleasant experience, for every twist of fate merely enhances the unique texture that encompasses your moment. It had been bumpy and daunting despite being accompanied, but the trek back was different I was suddenly eternally grateful for all that had brought me to this point: all the delight, and all the faux pas. This time the obstacles had been removed, and I did not run, for this was no longer an arduous road but the promising path that lead to my future.

I arrived with gift in hand ready to celebrate another year of my younger brother’s successful existence only to discover the dining room in shambles, and not a soul in or around the scene of the crime. I expelled a hesitant hello and cautiously followed the soft one I received in return. Every puzzle piece that created the sections of my mind knew the kind-hearted clumsiness that was my mother had caused the disaster upon which I had just stumbled. Her heart was bigger than a breadbox and overflowed with good intention, but unfortunately, her tiny body could rarely keep up with the plans her imagination envisioned.

It was in the bathroom that I discovered my mother hunched over her right knee nursing an obviously new gash in her leg; the red curls of her hair cascading down the side of her perfectly porcelain face. Sitting absolutely still in anticipation of the pain to come, she reminded me of the delicate china dolls I had played with as a child. As I ventured further into the room, she turned to face me, her brown eyes shimmering due to the subtle layer of tears that coated the surface. Hastily she dried her eyes and began to inform me of the events that had transpired mere moments before my arrival.

Just as I had suspected, her heart had proved once again to be stronger than her judgment. In her persistent determination to have the customary decorations perfectly in place, she had climbed atop her massive oak pedestal table. Having somewhat successfully perched her petite frame precariously along the edge, she strategically taped the last streamer into place. In virtually the same instant, my mother was thrown off balance and tumbled to the floor like an acorn fleeing the grasp of an old oak tree; the table landed firmly upon her leg shortly after.

As I listened intently to this amusing account of her accident, I watched as she meticulously maneuvered her way back to the kitchen. Struggling to keep both weight and pressure off her incredible injury, she was unsteady and unsure of how to progress down the hall; her wobbly gate resembling a newborn fawn with such intensity it inevitably made me smile. Once again she proved physical discomfort was no match for selfless willpower for she was determined not to be deterred from completing her son’s traditional birthday dinner.

The celebration continued as planned and all the while, the mass below her knee grew. Dinner was consumed, birthday wishes were given, candles were extinguished, and through it all – she smiled. My mother did not allow one word of discomfort to escape her lips until she was content all her maternal duties were completed. Then as though she was just recently aware of the baseball size monstrosity devouring her lower leg, she asked for a ride to the hospital.

Hours elapsed in the Emergency Room and multiple tests were done as we waited for a detailed account of the damage. Common sense had told my brother and me that we should have arrived eons ago, but our plea of concern had been dismissed. In our mother’s opinion, chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes were clearly more important that an appendage. When she finally emerged from behind the elusive double doors, she was on crutches, and I chuckled at the humor of the whole situation. She was so hell-bent on making sure each special occasion that occurred in the lives of her children was appropriately celebrated, she had temporarily forfeited her ability to walk.

Three months passed before my mother was able to move without the brace that had been encompassing her knobby right knee since that evening. She has never commented on her decision to wait for medical attention, and we know her well enough not to ask. With her sweet intentions, inventive ideas, and clumsy mannerisms, an incident of some sort is always waiting just around the corner. She is forever the mother lion protecting the happiness and well-being of her cubs, and her obstinate nature leaves no room for compromise. My brother and I have grown accustomed to the calamities and the quirky personality traits that make her who she is, and learned long ago that when it comes to our mother…if her hematoma can wait, then you should just sit back and enjoy the party.