Since I was silly and made no provisions for a photographer, most of the images live in my imagination. The brain does a good job of photoshopping. A few of the details have become legends, like the fluttering butterflies that flew down the aisle before us, and the Ghanaian who sang at the reception about God. His voice was like a ribbon in the wind. My sisters baked carrot cakes, not a single mammoth one but a flock of small ones, festooned with cream cheese icing and fresh flowers. Our clothes were handmade of wool and cotton, and less elaborate than the dresses I make for my daughters. But no matter. It was what we chose. 

The music was heavenly, with a brass quartet, a fleet of recorders, a classical guitar and a choir of people we still sing with.

I do have a snap shot of my mother. She looked happy. Her dress was not from the thrift store and she had four bobby pins in her hair. That was dressed up in her book. 

We still sing our vows, a little duet we wrote the week before. I didn't know then what a heart of stone meant. I have since confronted the hardness of my own will to recognize granite when I see it. But the suppleness of flesh is gradually replacing the unyielding rock.