It was a night I looked forward to. I could not see the whole scene in my mind's eye, but I knew it would happen at the church. The bride and groom embrace a bevy of friends, acquired through music, and dance, family connections, school, knitting, teaching, and small groups. I wondered what shade the dresses would be, and the aisle bouquets. Her grandmother altered the gown and arranged tangerine roses grown ten thousand feet above sea level that were watered by snow melt. The aunt making the cake said it would have layers of lemon, as well as chocolate. Surely the first dance would be worth craning my neck over the crowd of four hundred guests to watch, as she is a professional choreographer. Likely the special music would include toe tapping tunes and a world class violist from the Met. 

My part in the celebration was modest enough. Four dozen gluten free muffins and a tray of cut fruit. Yet it felt significant, as if there would be a blank spot on fifty plates at the reception if I fell and broke my ankle. 

Thirty women each sewed stars to fit into a quilt that is sprinkled with musical notation. It will give tangible evidence that they are loved, should they ever have reason to doubt it. 

There was a post on social media asking for umbrellas, should the predictions about inclement weather prove true. Within an hour someone stepped up eagerly to dash to the store and came back with ten. 

It would be impossible to name the hundreds of folks for whom today is worth donning a filmy dress, or buttoning a crisp shirt. There are lists of course, with RSVPs scratched out and added to as plans evolve. 

Yet today is only a glimpse through the keyhole. Their life as husband and wife will stretch into years and decades, filled with the vibrating strings of both hearts and instruments.