Photograph by Mazie Louise Montgomery
Wedding Day
Winter, 2006
Scott Crain
The day is here.
Years in the making and it is here.
It will be beautiful.
It will be a white dress and golden rings,
it will be black tuxedos and sweaty palms,
it will be the culmination of family stress and family money
in a big church with spoken vows, a deep kiss,
rice in the air, a clutched bouquet, cake, laughter, smiles . . .
But will it be love?
-asked the man in the subway station holding
yesterday's newspaper for tonight's blanket,
-asked the lawyer with the Italian shoes
and three divorces,
-asked the little girl coming to school
with make-up on her swollen cheek.
You will go from here with dreams, plans, and a new home.
There will be a sleepy partner in the mornings
and those tired, slumped evenings home from work.
It will be nights out or nights in,
kisses and hugs goodbye - hello,
but will it be love?
-asked the fifteen year old girl sleeping on a cot
at the shelter for the night.
There will be those evenings of warmth,
crickets singing a lullaby of creation.
There will be nights of thunder and lightning,
of rattled windows and lost power.
There will be nights of cold snowy silence and
quiet windows, where your reflection yields up wrinkles
that snuck in while you weren't looking.
There will be nights of passion in each other's arms,
intensifying the light of your bond,
and there will be nights when you've let the sun go down
on your anger, dimming everything you have.
But, the sun rises every morning,
and when you rise,
be in the sun's likeness,
because that man by the stoplight
with no family and $5.15 an hour,
and that prostitute on 9th avenue, and her pimp, and her john,
need to know if it will be love!
And we, with silent, awkward voices,
ask the same question.
We who surround you now
and have maybe not taken those flower-petal-crushing steps
and maybe not found that nameless place in someone else's eyes.
You are our hope as Christ is our hope.
There was healing in His hands,
trembling to the echoes of "will it be love?"
-asked by the masses with black and blue hearts and unfelt days,
demanding, "do you have the so-called love it takes to show me truth?,
to show me hope?,
to show me God?"
And you will both say, "I do."
Scott Crain
The day is here.
Years in the making and it is here.
It will be beautiful.
It will be a white dress and golden rings,
it will be black tuxedos and sweaty palms,
it will be the culmination of family stress and family money
in a big church with spoken vows, a deep kiss,
rice in the air, a clutched bouquet, cake, laughter, smiles . . .
But will it be love?
-asked the man in the subway station holding
yesterday's newspaper for tonight's blanket,
-asked the lawyer with the Italian shoes
and three divorces,
-asked the little girl coming to school
with make-up on her swollen cheek.
You will go from here with dreams, plans, and a new home.
There will be a sleepy partner in the mornings
and those tired, slumped evenings home from work.
It will be nights out or nights in,
kisses and hugs goodbye - hello,
but will it be love?
-asked the fifteen year old girl sleeping on a cot
at the shelter for the night.
There will be those evenings of warmth,
crickets singing a lullaby of creation.
There will be nights of thunder and lightning,
of rattled windows and lost power.
There will be nights of cold snowy silence and
quiet windows, where your reflection yields up wrinkles
that snuck in while you weren't looking.
There will be nights of passion in each other's arms,
intensifying the light of your bond,
and there will be nights when you've let the sun go down
on your anger, dimming everything you have.
But, the sun rises every morning,
and when you rise,
be in the sun's likeness,
because that man by the stoplight
with no family and $5.15 an hour,
and that prostitute on 9th avenue, and her pimp, and her john,
need to know if it will be love!
And we, with silent, awkward voices,
ask the same question.
We who surround you now
and have maybe not taken those flower-petal-crushing steps
and maybe not found that nameless place in someone else's eyes.
You are our hope as Christ is our hope.
There was healing in His hands,
trembling to the echoes of "will it be love?"
-asked by the masses with black and blue hearts and unfelt days,
demanding, "do you have the so-called love it takes to show me truth?,
to show me hope?,
to show me God?"
And you will both say, "I do."