A year from now I will be in Vermont. So will John, all nine of my children, two spouses, a fiance and a room full of friends. 

Anticipation is a marvelous thing. Our daughter is getting married, and the celebration will saturate my senses. The croon of a cello, the orange of the leaves, the banter of her brother and sister in law as they set up cameras, the scent of flower petals, the twirl of the twins in their new dresses, the rustle of the bride's lace, the smell of the wood stove, the spice of cake, the stand up comedy in her sister's speech will spill over and into each other.

How is it possible to be so blessed? I already feel the joy, and no one has cracked the first egg. The flowers have not yet been planted. The logs are still green. Dresses have not been ordered. 

But hope lures tomorrow's delight into the spaces of today. And two years from now the memory will burrow into my heart like the roots of those maple trees around the barn where everyone will gather. The images will plunge deeper each year, shouting with color and sighing to the ground with contentment.