Dancing in the Kitchen

My parents got married ten months before I was

born. They married in a church, the classic Roman Catholic

wedding, the priest, the white dress, the organ. It was

mid October, when the leaves were the brightest. Mom says

they picked the date because fall’s her favorite season. I

think they just didn’t want to wait any longer. They waited

seven years to get married, and even though they’d never

admit it, they moved to Arizona to stay together through

college. When they moved back to Massachusetts they

planned fast, a church wedding was the easiest way to marry.

They didn’t even have to pick the music, the priest did it

for them. They knew from the start it would be small, close

family and friends, the one bridesmaid my mother chose.

When the day came, Mom glowed, her dress had been

made by my Grandmother, a simple a-line dress, little pearls

sewn into the veil. Dad wore a suit, I mean realistically what

else would he have worn? They walked down the aisle to

Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy,” surrounded by close family and

friends, it was exactly what they wanted.

My parents really were a good example. They

weren’t perfect—Dad worked nights and Mom had four

kids, so it’s not like it was easy for them—but they were so

in love. They still are. Dad always cooks Mom her favorite

soup when she’s sick, and buys everything in her favorite

color deep teal (Mom’s favorite color is really green but

Dad is colorblind and tries his best). Mom stays up late to

make sure he gets home from work, despite the long day my

siblings and I no doubt gave her. Sometimes—late at night,

when they think the whole house is asleep—I sneak into

the hallway and watch them dance in the kitchen, always

holding each other close.