Roses sparkle and wilt on the huppah
in this season of rising heat and floods.
But we’ve made it through traffic
to this lawn overlooking the harbor.
Violin notes waver sweetly in the wind.
Rain clouds mass above,
so we race towards rows of stiff backed chairs.
Veiled in lace, the bride
sweeps down her petaled path.
The groom stares, entranced.
I find comfort in the rabbi, in her tallit
and floral dress, like our aunts wore in the 60s.
She cites ketubah highlights, chants sheva brakhot,
bids the beaming parents light candles.
Soon gusts whip up – a downpour
soaking canopy, the bride, groom and guests,
who race indoors. Wait! cries the rabbi,
Two more blessings!
Only stalwarts remain, we stragglers
who know that rains bestow good luck.
It stormed at my wedding.
Cousins dragged mom’s Turkish rugs
from house to lawn to muddy tent.
Laughing now, my sister flashes
mom’s gold bracelet.
I’ve worn her antique ring
so her soul might arrive, shehekhiyanu,
might witness this moment.
