There were vows and rings. A best man and a maid of honor. Toasts and hugs and kisses. Brats and burgers, stories and laughter.
And there was love. Abundant love. Exuberant love. Joyful, celebratory, smiling, laughing, weeping, I-want-to-spend-the-rest-of-my-life-with-you love.
The ceremony took place on a dock next to a pond. The couple wore tee-shirts and shorts, sneakers and flip flops. The preacher tucked his dress shirt into a pair of farmer’s overalls.
Two friends of mine, two women, got married on a dock in a small town in Iowa on Friday night. They slipped rings on each other’s fingers and vowed to love and cherish one another in sickness and in health, until death does them part. Their loved ones gathered around, teary and smiling, as the orange sun slipped behind the pine trees and a pair of geese honked and flapped into the azure sky.
The brief ceremony complete, my friends stepped into a wicker basket and were lifted into the Iowa sky beneath a roaring flame and a canopy of color. They rode off, gliding over the rolling cornfields and into the sunset. It was like something out of a movie.
I stood on the edge of the woods smiling like a fool. And I watched the balloon float soundlessly away, until it was just a speck in the vast, vast sky.