Queers To You, Mrs. Robinson

I got married

If our relationship is a queer love letter to our community, let this writing be the stationary it’s written on.

I am sitting down to write this in a quiet house while being by myself entirely for the first time in 10 days. Muscles I don’t often use are sore from playing soccer and basketball and a combination of the two with Anaya and the kids for hours yesterday. I love that feeling- subtle reminders and remembrance.

I haven’t had the ability to process our wedding day or the days leading up to it, really. We piggybacked our wedding with a three year old home on spring break while at the tail end of potty training, a new swimming lesson, and with his preferred calculated routine tossed to the wayside. Weeks like these rattle and trigger all of my softest and traumatized places that have mostly settled but still very much live in the crevices of my body. More remembrance. All that to say, I had an overflowing inbox this morning, there are approximately seven shirts on the chair near the record player that Little put on/off in various fashions and forms, paintings and “book reviews” done by our seven year old (I fucking love that kid), and the cocktail glasses we received as a wedding gift with remnants of the Negronis Anaya made us while I prepped veggies and pasta salad and he prepped the grill for last night’s dinner, staring at me to be washed-

and yet. I was still for 15 minutes before I opened my computer and before I began to write this. I lit some incense, opened the window closest to me despite the current temp of 40 degrees, let the sun that spills in from our east facing window shower my back, and I just sat and existed. I felt in to the soreness that pinches my bicep, the tangle of hair at the nape of my neck from Little twirling it in his sleep and mine, and the sensation of two rings instead of one on my ring finger.

I’m married.

xxx

To give you the breadth of meaning to our wedding day it’s important that I share the bones of it all rather than solely the candid snapshots of caviar + potato chips and the missing crème fraîche that Anaya accidentally forgot. If I’m going to give it to you, have it all.

xxx

I met Nic, a dearest friend and our officiant, plus their wildly handsome husband one Christmas afternoon after our flight to Puerto Vallarta was delayed three times and then cancelled while sitting not in Denver, but rather LAX. How far does Nic and Jess live from here? Is it outrageous if we call and see if it wouldn’t be an absolute imposition to crash their holiday and couch with less than an hours notice to regroup and form a plan b? Anaya looked at me and said, No, that’s actually a brilliant idea.

So they were were, there I was, having never had met them and inviting myself to their home on Christmas Day. I understand that I seem rather outgoing on the surface but I can be anxiously shy and I will not sleep inside someone else’s home if there is literally any other option. I’ll never forget the way Jess, Nic’s husband, stood up from the garden and looked at the two of us. Or the way their house smelled when I awkwardly stood with my suitcase in their doorway, trying to take off my high-tops, while Nic grabbed everything and hugged both of us initially wordlessly and tight. The glass of wine that appeared in my hand, laughing almost immediately as we sat down to eat the dinner Nic had prepared, or the way I slept (well) in their home.

I asked Anaya if we should ask Nic to officiate our wedding a couple months later and the rest is history.

xxx

Processional:

Entrance:

Recessional:

When I think of our wedding vows and the ceremony Nic prepared after careful, careful and thoughtful question-asking and intention-setting, the word seamless comes to mind. All of us had worked in seasons and spring without having any context about what any of us had actually prepared. Cycles, and transcendence. Healing and the regenerative nature of springtime. They were all songs on the same album.