The day was mild and blue.  A zephyr breeze gusted lightly over our faces.  The sun caressed us.  Burgandy sequins on my gown glinted in the tranquil light.  We celebrated this day.  A wedding.  My daughter, the bride, was sequestered away in all her finery. The groom stood under the chuppah, smiling and trim, formal and handsome in his tux.  Waiting.

I could hear the guests, their voices a melodic murmur as they took their seats in wooden chairs placed on the green.  I looked out over the horizon and several boats sailed silently through the cobalt harbor waters.  I was an observer in that moment--just listening and watching and feeling as if I might have landed in an enchanted geography--whispers of Narnia.  This was a place that simultaneously contained a sense of pleasurable expectation and a delicate feeling of nostalgia.

There was a recognition of healing--my ex-husband and I proud of our precious daughter.  No hard feelings--just grateful that we could be friends and celebrate the completion of parenting.  We had helped bring our darling girl to a place of maturity and beauty--not perfectly, but certainly very, very well.

And then I sat watching my cherished husband--his profile silhouetted in the afternoon sun.  I could hear his laughter, see the flash of his smile.  One hand rested on his knee, a silver bracelet encompassing his sturdy wrist.  We could celebrate too--our love intact and authentic over these years.

At last the shofar blew--its trumpeting, regal tone resounded over the landscape.  The bride walked confidently to meet her beloved.  And we feasted.  We wept tears of gladness.  We embraced.  The flags flew.  And we looked to the future--eternity refected in our gaze.