Arbitrary Musings: San Miguel, Part the Last

I had intended to write this blog days ago, before leaving San Miguel, so that the chill mist of morning rising over the arid city could do its work on my sleepy brain. Perhaps it might have been better written then, more eloquent or more entertaining. Now there's no way of knowing. Saturday, August 17: THE. BIG. DAY. We are all up crazy-early, drinking weirdly-roasted coffee that tastes instant, even though we know it's not, not eating much. The bridal party begins the long, long process of playing dress-up at about 9 a.m., hair to be done, makeup, make sure none of the groomsmen go upstairs. After all the hype about how much there is to be done, there's a lot of hurry up and wait. Where to leave things out? Where to add them? To cast a writer's eye on which; to mention whom. First Look: My sister finally comes down the stairs in her wedding dress, followed by her bridesmaids all in teal. They make a vision against the yellow walls. I cannot describe it better than this photo does:

...she descends first to my father, then all the way down into the courtyard to her husband. I can't see their faces-I'm behind them, and above them on the patio, and honestly, that's just fine with me. This is their moment: the white-dress moment, the culmination of their love. They are holding hands now, walking towards the sun, away from me. I can't see it, but I know my sister's face is radiant. I know her husband is smiling. And then I think about worry. I think about "to miss". I think about "absence". And fonder hearts. And this time around. I do not "MISS HIM". All in capitals for emphasis, of course. I miss him in the way one misses the familiar while traveling alone: wouldn't it be nice to have someone to turn to, to exclaim over how beautiful, or how tasty, or look! In the way you begin to miss the daylight in Alaska, when fall settles in: it would be nice to have those extra couple of hours, but now it's the right temperature for fireplaces, hot tea. I miss him because he would love to be here, to sit and watch the sun set together, as we always do, merely in a new country, a new city, a newer world. I am accustomed to 'worrying'. I do not worry ABOUT HIM. I worry, but I don't-I worry about silly things, about whether we have food in the 'fridge for when I return. About whether he's getting enough sleep (he's not). I worry about the dog, frankly, more than I worry about 'what he's doing while I'm gone'. I realise that I have never had this; this reasonable facsimile of serenity. Always before I have traveled alone, wishing I had someone to 'share it with'; traveled toward someone who, all the while I was dabbing my eyelids with cold water and driving with the windows down, was moving away from me even as I raced to find them. Traveled having just left someone. Having been left. In limbo or otherwise. I do not worry about him because I know where he will be. I can see his routine in my head now; Not a day has passed that we haven't spoken, somehow. He tells me he loves me, that he cannot wait until I get back; that he's sad because he can't be there. I hear it all. I believe every word. How we wait all our lives for this absence of apprehension. How we know what someone will wear just to pick us up at an airport. The feeling of perfect stasis in the gut-there is nothing going on. There is nothing going wrong. In the heart. And then it's suddenly time to leave the chapel, to head back out into the scorching sun, and follow a donkey around while drinking shots of tequila from tiny clay mugs. True story. The parade is long, but it is hilarious. Spontaneous dances break out in the streets. True story. All of it. My mother is taking tequila shots. My father is taking tequila shots. The donkey is unhappy. More tequila shots. We are parading through the streets while strangers-locals, tourists, some guy who joins the party like he belongs there-clap and cheer the bride and groom. You see this in movies. You see this for real.

Because this: this parading through the streets, showing off to the crowd-this is what we're here for, aren't we? Shouldn't love be like this? A beating sun, a meandering line of family, of friends. Candy-colored clay cups, spontaneous dances. Spectators on balconies. We are all in love and we want to yell about it. Whitman said "barbaric yawp!". Over the rooftops. We are in love with each other; with the silliness of a donkey parade (with life's parade, with the parade of each other in and out and in again); with the charming confusion of being tourists in a foreign town maintained by ex-patriats. With being a tourist attraction to locals. We are in love with my sister and her husband and their love. And I am. I am in love. With a flawed, sometimes-cranky, beautiful man. Without all the agonizing over "whether we'll last". Without worry. Later, there are speeches. The sun goes down over the yellow casita. There are not one, but three fireworks displays, each one lit off from a rooftop closer than the last. We know we paid for one, for my sister. We say they are all for her. Because that's what we all wish, for ourselves, for the ones we love, when they finally find true love, isn't it? For fireworks. For all the fireworks in the city to be lit at once. For a faint smell of black powder. For the riot of the heart to be reflected in the sky.