I was a best man in a wedding. Not a man but a woman called "best person", by some. Formally, I was "Groom's Honor", which is suitable. I wore a tux fitted to me just that morning before the wedding: tails, bow tie, cufflinks, tuxedo shirt, pants, shiny shoes and new socks. A comfortable but excessively warm outfit. I dressed with the women. While they fumbled with strapless bras and bulky skirts, I labored over buttons on the wrong side, or not buttons at all but those things - what are they called? - poked through the holes to act as buttons. Prettier, flashier buttons.

I missed the rehearsal because my flight from Philadelphia was late. No idea what to do, Tom gave me a quick run down over breakfast that morning:
"When they get to the chandelier, that's when you go."
"You'll stand on the second step behind me."
"After Luana and I go through communion, then you go."

Communion: traditional Catholic ceremony. Ugh. Not Catholic, so just a blessing, which went smoothly and painlessly. Palm to my forehead, the only part of the ritual that touched me.

I remember Mace - another groom's person - whispering to me what I should do next. My own bug in the ear and one of the funnier things I remember about the wedding because it was really a theatrical device to create humor and not real life, even though it was real this time and not a movie - and very necessary. But I was in it and being a participant made the wedding infinitely more interesting than if I were merely a guest. As a guest I would've tuned out the pontificating priest and let my thoughts wander toward more selfish pleasures. As it was, I had to be on my toes to stand or sit or walk or hand over rings, etc. Had to pay attention and the whole thing was a very fascinating anthropological event.

Ushering: People didn't know how to hold onto my arm or whether they should at all.

The toast was mine to mold into immortality. Now I try to forget it. Exhausted and sick I was from traveling, I could think of no brilliant speech. An uninspiring segment recorded onto videotape, vulnerable to repeated scrutiny.

The first dance. It was a ballroom we were in, a restored one in downtown Portland. High rounded ceiling painted turquoise. The balcony floor held tables into little arched nooks that were lit from below with warm yellow lights. Twilight and moonrise, maybe the setting sun. A spotlight designated the dance floor, or the globe in which these two dance eternally. Tom was leading but the two of them were one graceful curve, one body in perfect fluid motion. Moving others with their movement. I am still moving from it; indeed my heart aches in witness of such expressed union. The dance was more symbolic of their love and marriage than the ceremony, which was contrived and trite and rehearsed. (Rehearsals for weddings have always disturbed me because they often include the vows, which once said, are said, right? Say it again. Rehearsals lessen the power of the ceremony as a singular event in our lives.)

My friend is married.