We were married on a beautiful September morning in the small town where we grew up.
We were highschool sweethearts.
A simple wedding.
I still remember the flutter of my heart as I slipped on my veil, took one last look at my reflection in the glass.
It felt so perfect and right.
But the year leading up to this moment was not.
My relationship with my sweet Blue Eyes caused a rift with my parents.
A rift so deep, that I became emancipated at age 16.
I had been on my own for over a year.
I did not have their blessing.
But I pleaded with my Father to walk me down the aisle.
And for them both to attend.
As I prepared for our special day, I prayed they would come.
And they did. Reluctantly.
There were no flowers, only the small bouquet of pink rosebuds that I carried in my hands.
There was no photographer,
No glittering reception with towering cake, toasts to our union and dancing into the night.
A small group of friends and family quietly sat in the unadorned pews.
My Grandmother. My Aunt Mary.
His Grandmother. His Uncle Sonny.
Our parents. Some high school friends.
My sister was maid of honor in a borrowed dress.
Blue Eye's best man backed out the day before.
He didn't believe, he said. He didn't think it would last.
Blue Eye's young brother took his place, wearing the only tux that came in his small size.
We cared not one bit.
Our only thoughts were of each other, of starting our life together.
Free to create our own destiny.
I only remember the joy in my heart.
The love in his eyes.
And as we walked arm and arm as man and wife into the beautiful morning sunshine,
we knew it was right.
Next time: We follow our dreams.