I was a fly on the wall. Well, not so much on the wall as in the chair. Peopling the desk at the cathedral during a wedding is a chance to witness the excitement, and the kerfuffle that twirls around the couple like ribbons around a maypole. 

By the time the bridesmaids arrived at the church, they were gorgeous. Months of online shopping, and hours in front of a stylist culminated in the perfection that is only possible for humans in their twenties. There are other examples of beauty. The wispy curls and smudged knees of a preschooler are their own kind of wonderful, as are the deep crevices on a grandmother's face. But weddings are partial to the every-hair-in-place and no band-aids showing variety. 

I mention band-aids, because a bridesmaid asked me for one. Her brandy new heels were not yet broken in. Another woman's sandals were misbehaving, and she came in search of something sharp enough to poke a hole in the strap. 

The photographers are exempt from such wardrobe standards. One was wearing sneakers. Another skipped socks entirely, though I can't blame him. The heat outside was oppressive. 

There were three flower girls whose dresses were as poofy as umbrellas, with shiny silver shoes planting their feet to the ground lest the wind carry them away. The ring bearer was dapper in a bow tie and knee socks. The treat waiting for him after a successful saunter up the aisle was sushi. Things have upgraded since the days of lollipops.

But other things are much as they have been. There was a kiss, and the newly married groom dabbing his eyes. I was grateful to see a few grandmothers and matronly great aunts, whose own marriages have ripened for well past sixty years. Their beauty is not as evident in a photo shoot. You have to sit beside them awhile, and invite their wisdom to beguile you like a bouquet of hydrangeas. 

But unlike the floral arrangements, those promises will still be blooming in a thousand years.