Tennessee Wedding

In January, east of the Blue Ridge Mountains,some arrive late, as night veils the ridgeline,and wait outside the chapel, taking slow hitsof cold, thinning air. This, until the rehearsal ends.Until their friends gone west, gone east,overrun the local bar, toasting their friendwho trekked the Appalachian Trail to Maineand came back with this woman, his almost-wife,who patched his hammock with a needle and hair.

Next morning, the men rise earlyfor a last deer huntwith the bachelor, as a bachelor.Over long johns, they layer clothesthat mimic twigs and leaves,drink black coffee made in a stove pan,then take up their rifles and go into the cold,pockets packed with flasks of whisky and smokes.

The women wake early too, some mixingbutter, flour, and milk, others skirting aroundthe porch, clipping vines to gather up the flowers.Midmorning, they break for tea and coffee and biscuits.Then assemble bouquets of dried hydrangeasand lavender with sprays of winter berries.Two young girls rush in and ask,What will we carry?

The bride stands and says she needs to pressthe linens and dresses. But walks past the laundry room,past the ironing board, and into the guest bedroom,where she sits, silent and staring out a windowat the thin place where earth meets sky,where we all wait, all of usalone and longing for somethingto intervene and change us.