I knew it was my wedding day. The hall wasn't where we actually got married, but I didn't question it. I'd been here before, many times, each time a little different, more awake.
She was standing before me, my wife, the mother of my children, the woman who sleeps next to me today, but she wasn't yet any of those things. This wasn't a memory, it was another situation. A visit, perhaps, a relived choice. I was speaking from the after, while she was still in the before.
I leaned in close—not to kiss her, not to promise—but to speak. There was something she hadn't said then; she didn't know her strength or the ways life would ask her to surrender and rise, again and again. First, I spoke of beauty: children, bright, whole, full of fire. The way she would cradle them, sing to them half asleep, raise them to live with sweetness and purpose, how their joys would become hers.
Then I told her about the cost: that she would lose track of herself; she would miss the silence and the sleep; her name would be spoken a hundred times a day, and yet, sometimes she would feel invisible; real love—the kind earned every day—demands more than one thinks one can give. “If you choose me, you will have a beautiful family,” I told her. “But there will be days when you wonder where you ended up.”
"Is it worth it?" he questioned.
I told her about our daughters imitating her getting ready; about our son running into her arms every time she came home from work; about late-night conversations and silent glances over tired dinners; about a heavier world, and how she would hold it, one small act of love at a time. “Some days you will forget who you are,” I added. “But you will meet a version of yourself you never imagined. I can’t promise you an easy life. I can promise you meaning.”
The veil moved; I felt time hold its breath.
"I don't want to disappear," he said.
—You won't. Sometimes you'll just blur.
—And us? Will we be okay?
—It won't be easy. We'll be okay because we chose each other, even if we're tired, even if we forget for a while, even if it doesn't make sense to do so. Especially then.
—Will it still be me?
—Yes. But not the same. In some ways, more you than ever.
It was time. I followed her, not as a bridegroom, but as the man who came from the future to tell her: Love will ask everything of you, and you will give it, and you will be magnificent. And, as the dream dissolved, I whispered: And I hope—if I ever find you in some distant version of our wedding day—that you will let me be by your side once more.
Sergio Andre
Psychologist, Santo Tomás University 2001, Bogotá, Colombia
Certified Professional Teaching Educator, Florida
Winner of the “Excellence in Education Award,” Hispanic Heritage Month, presented in 2012 by Governor Rick Scott.
