I am late, I think, but so afraid of being early and having him see me before he is in our trysting place. I am already clammy, in the weird zone between being cold and hot that says I am probably excited, nervous, or sick. My smile muscles are already sore, my hair already a little bedraggled. My train has already been stepped on too many times to count. But here I am, and here everyone else is, watching me as I clutch my flowers and drooping train and climb the short hill to dissapear down the dirt path. One last shy smile at my bridesmaids and family, one last tiny glance, and I am walking, trotting, hurriedly walking again through those sun-dappled woods towards my future. Towards giving it away. Towards merging it with the future of the one I love.
I see him dimly through the trees. He is pacing a little, boundless energy held in check. I try to hurry more, tripping over roots and rocks and my own silly shoes. My poor boy. He always has to wait for me. Because I enjoy the sun-dappled woods. I enjoy lingering in the wood-between-the-worlds where the air is warm and sleepy and there are endless possibilities. I enjoy the moment before realization, the anticipation, the breath and calm before the roller coaster starts. He wants to slip on his magic ring and dive into the pool with all the passion pent up in his soul. He want me along for the ride. Do I dare?
He hears my footsteps on the cool stone, my tripping feet on the steps. I see him look up, scanning the trees, trying to peirce through the veil of falling leaves. Then he sees me too, haphazard princess that I am, a glimpse of the beauty that I want to be for him. He smiles. There are tears in his smile, tears that tell of love that waits. Impatient patience. Passion at the brink.
I can only linger a moment more. I feel the calm. I take a breath.