Todays Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul

[Guest guest]

Twenty-Six Years ? An Unfolding Romance

By Kris Hamm Ross

" Now, who is it that's getting married? " my husband whispered to me as

we

settled into our pew after being led down the church aisle by a solemn-faced

young usher.

We'd had this discussion at least three times. Once when I discovered

the

calligraphied envelope buried under a pile of discarded grocery flyers after

he'd reached the mailbox first. Another when he knocked the invitation off

its

magnet on the refrigerator door - where I had mounted it in plain view. And

a

few days earlier when I reminded him we couldn't go to the opening of an

action

flick because we were going to the wedding of a teaching colleague of mine.

Despite all this, I wasn't concerned he'd forgotten the names embossed

on

the invitation. After twenty-six years of marriage, I've learned that the

mere

mention of the word " wedding " seems to trigger a memory lapse in my husband.

So, as we took our seats, I calmly whispered back, " The computer

teacher

and the Bible teacher's son. "

" Sounds like the title of one of those romance novels you read on the

treadmill at the gym, " he muttered and settled down, probably to count the

number of women sitting by themselves who had left their lucky husbands

behind.

The ringing chords of the organ accompanied a lilting soprano and

filled

the flower-scented air. It reminded me of my own wedding day and the

joy-tinged

nervousness that made my stomach dance with butterflies as I stood hidden

from

guests, awaiting my cue. I wondered if the bride was calming her own

fluttering

emotions.

I knew the groom was. He was a quiet man who didn't seek the limelight

and

for whom, according to his mother, the anticipation of standing to face 400

guests was daunting.

When, tuxedoed and handsome, he led his entourage to take their places

at

the altar steps, I looked for signs of distress. Fidgety hands. Sweating

brow.

Restless feet. Instead, I saw the sweet smile of a happy man as he

anticipated

the sweeping entry of the woman he loved. And I didn't need the strains of

the

" Trumpet Voluntary " to know the bride was poised to enter. The groom's face

reflected her presence.

As we rose in honor, I felt a twinge of envy. It had been a long time

since my husband had looked at me with that kind of glow. Maybe twenty-six

years of marriage does that, I thought. Maybe the day we said our vows, the

day

he looked at me in my bridal white and his eyes said, " I love you and you

are

beautiful " was the climax of our own romantic saga, the best it was ever

going

to get. And maybe our confidence in the first blush of love became a memory

buried under years of hard work to keep our marriage going.

The last strains of music faded and the bride's glowing face, shadowed

by

layers of pearl-encrusted tulle, turned from her father to her groom.

That's

when a little tear threatened to slip down my cheek. In the candlelit

softness,

they did look like a perfect couple from one of those romantic novels I

liked to

sneak into the gym.

A tiny part of me mourned the loss of my storybook-romance illusions as

the

groom reached for his bride's hand. I wanted to be them again - partners

facing

a clean slate, oblivious to all but their love. I wanted to steal a piece

of

the mystical magic of new love and rediscover its feelings of hope, promise

and

possibilities - the same fresh feelings my husband and I shared on our own

wedding day.

Suddenly, as if he knew my thoughts, my husband turned to me and

whispered,

" I like the way you look in that red dress, Kris. " His eyes filled with a

warmth that still melts my heart, and his thumb stroked my palm like it did

twenty-six years ago when we stood in a rose-perfumed garden and he said, " I

do. "

Inching into the shelter of his encircling arm, I remembered the

long-ago

wedding promises we made and have honored over many good and some

not-so-good

years. I thought of our mutual respect, of the love that drew us together,

of

the sure foundation of trust and commitment we continued to build on.

All too soon, the groom kissed his bride and, beaming, they walked

hand-in-

hand down a petal-strewn aisle . . . into a star-studded night.

As the bride left to face her future, I wished her happiness. But I no

longer wanted to be her. I was glad I was right where I was. With the man

I

love. Hand-in-hand, we followed the newlyweds into the luminous night - and

a

beckoning future of romance.