I totally forgot that today would have been my twentieth wedding anniversary until Facebook prompted me with a picture of me and my ex walking up the aisle triumphantly.
It was a really nice wedding. I will always be proud of how nice the wedding was. I pulled it together in three months. Not too shabby.
It all seems so long ago. Sometimes I forget I was married. Ten years of my life I was married to someone. Now he’s married to someone else, and I am happily not married to anyone.
The other day, I showed the kid where her dad and I first kissed, on the Canal Street platform waiting for the N train to Astoria. We’d just eaten steamed pork buns after I picked him up from the Chinatown bus. When we got back to my place, I pulled him into my bed.
Now I’m in a different bed, same state, listening to the rain outside, wondering if bears will watch me through the sliding glass doors when I walk through the living room to get more coffee.
The kid is raised and now she’s in NYC. My life is just mine again, back full circle. I’m writing about my Mom again, but this time it’s for a book, not a five minute set.
Today I’ll write about nearly killing my mother several times during the preparations for my wedding. I hadn’t decided on which stories to write down today. Thanks for the prompt, Facebook.
Jen, I have very fond memories of attending your wedding with my mother and Mary Ellen: the beautiful church in Brookline, the gorgeous singing voice of your father, and the delicious Toscanini ice cream served at the reception. Gus Rancatore was seated at our table and I remember discussing our mutual love of gourmet ice cream. I believe he worked at one time at Steve’s in Davis Square which I occasionally frequented during my college days at Tufts. I hope we can arrange to get together for a visit when you have time. –John Pearsall