It was a story book wedding.
He came from the city, a musician from the New York Philharmonic. In vintage dress, like the leading man from a silent movie, he speaks with his eyes. She came from the south, full of fire like her mother.
Her spirit is demanding, she is beautiful, inside and out.
August 14, 2000 is their day.
The preacher's pleasant voice proclaims the vows and they repeat each word. "Who gives this woman to be married to this man?" he demands.
In a moment, I will answer him, but now my mind races, recalling how she filled my life.
I remembered how she shared her seventh birthday party with a first cousin who had come to stay with us. We bought them both bicycles. She was so excited and went outside to learn to ride. Our driveway was steep and rocky, not an ideal place for such discovery. When Linda or I offered to help, she pushed us away. We stood inside at the window and watched time after time as she tried and fell. Before long, her little knees were bruised and bleeding, but she persisted. What she did next is burned into my mind forever.

 
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