i did

Seven years ago in my back garden with 106 of our dearest friends and family in attendance, my sweetheart and I married after eight years of shacking up. I never wanted to marry, ever. I frequently expressed the belief that the best way to be together would be to live next door to one another, a duplex kind of arrangement where each party would have his or her own space and time spent together would be like a comfortable kind of dating.

Marriage felt to me like a transfer of property: "who gives this woman," all of that. Mike wondered whether, after eight years, it might mess up a good thing. He was married for 17 years before. My longest running relationship was five years and I cheated most of that time. We talked to the preacher of Mt. Zion Baptist Church where our AA home group met just in case we decided to go ahead. We wanted a real preacher and we're both lapsed, but the legendary Rev. G. Calvin McCutcheon stepped up to the plate for his AA kids. We backed off. We discussed. We backed off.

We did it anyway, mainly because a series of losses over a period of three months left his family bereft and all of us were soul sick after a suicide and then a three month death watch in ICU. His mother said "Daddy's dying wish was to see you two married before God." My parents said nothing but I knew, I knew. They're devout and believe in doing things the right way. They would not intrude, but they would be pleased. His mother's whining felt like a burr under my tail and riled up the contrary wild thing who lives within me. I hashed it over and over in my mind, trying to reconcile who I am in my heart and soul with being married and what that might mean. I sent out invitations.

We had said for a long time we were going to get married, even set a date twice. Over the years, I noticed that it takes more to get married than just announcing intentions. Our intentions were true, but our follow up was lacking. We timed the invitations to reach our friends on Monday and Tuesday so we could delight in their shock at meeting Tuesday night. We planned breakfast in the garden for 110.

The date approached and we fell into a kind of inertia. I had 1400 plants I'd grown under lights yet to put out in the garden. We wanted the roses to be in full bloom, the foxgloves to be standing at attention. I dug and planted, Mike queried "what do you think, honey?" I was swept up and rescued by Miss Pam, Michael and Vonchelle. My dear AA friends, one divine lesbian, one fabulous gay man and one angry black woman, came to my rescue and took over everything food-related. The planned breakfast in the garden suddenly turned into a splendid affair.

The date approached. Our friends kept us surrounded, constantly dropping by, calling, almost as if they were afraid we'd change our minds. Saturday, May 13 dawned cool and crisp and beautiful, a rarity for Tulsa, where May brings hot weather.

It was a glorious morning. The roses were perfect, the foxgloves waving in the slight breeze, there were flowers everywhere. And then there were people everywhere and the inimitable Tommy Crook playing jazz from the deck and the preacher arriving with his entourage and my parents standing up with me and Mike with his mother and our dear friend Ralph standing in for Mike's dad.

I was barefoot in a blue dress under pink roses in the arbor guarding entry to the vegetable garden. My honey took my hand and smiled and there were tears and there was applause and music and sunshine and sweet scents and it was absolutely glorious, absolutely.

And so I was married, something I never wanted to do, but married to my soulmate, my sweetheart, the man I will love forever. I mourned the passing of a different view of myself just a little. I took a deep breath and thought this act might finally have made me feel like an adult. Then I exhaled and realized that I was still myself, still me, not swallowed up or consumed or possessed.

It was the most beautiful day, the most beautiful wedding. Seven years ago today, I did. Married. It still blows me away.