My father, whom I was named after, was larger than life for all of my growing up. He kept us safe through transcontinental moves, filled the pantry with our favorite cereal and jam, and listened as if we mattered. Lorentz was an extraordinary father, which came home to me when I dug a bit into family history and realized that he was less than cherished by his own. He and Grandpa shared an interest in music, but talk openly? Not a chance. Dad was born when his parents were older and their limited patience was depleted. He said he was really raised by the YMCA. When his older brother died his mother bemoaned that it wasn't Lorentz instead. My mother was in the room and felt the slice deeply. 

Dad walked his oldest daughter down this aisle. The anxiety of entrusting her to someone he had only known a few months was keen. My sister and I walked in on the arms of our husbands, while Dad cried quietly in the front row. Probably my mother held her tears behind a smile, though I must admit I was entirely oblivious to how our wedding impacted her at all. It was my day. Or so I thought. 

I am intrigued that life affords many of us a chance to play several parts in the same play. I was a junior bridesmaid, dazzled by the showy flowers and ribboned gifts and my own swishing pink and purple gown. Later I was a bride, swimming in the abundant attention and joy. That June day was warm enough to last into tomorrow. I have been the mother of the groom, sitting off to the side, brimming with my own flooded feelings while I watched his beloved serenade him. Every time I listen again, I am overwhelmed. Other times I have played the aunt, the neighbor and the friend of the family. One day I may be the mother of the bride, and might see yet another facet of the wedding diamond. 

It seems unlikely that I will ever wear the corsage of the grandmother of the bride or groom. But one heart can only hold so much happiness. Perhaps I have already had my share.