Scott Russell Sanders

In memory, I wait beside Eva in the vestibule of the church to play my part as father of the bride. She hooks a hand on my elbow while three bridesmaids fuss over her, fixing the gauzy veil spreading the long ivory train of her gown, tucking into her bun a loose strand of hair, which glows the color of honey filled with sunlight. Clumsy in my rented patent leather shoes and stiff black tuxedo, I stand among these gorgeous women like a crow among doves. I realize that they're gorgeous not because they carry bouquets or wear silk dresses, but because the festival of marriage has slowed time down until any fool can see their glory.

Concerned that we might walk too fast, as we did in rehearsal, Eva tries in vain to teach me a gliding ballet step to use as we process down the aisle.

"It's really simple, Daddy, "she says, as I botch it over and over.

I fear that I will stagger along beside my elegant daughter like a veteran wounded in foreign wars.

Eva, meanwhile, seems blissfully confident, not only of being able to walk gracefully, as she could do in her sleep, but of standing before this Congregation and solemnly promising to share her life with Matthew Allen, the man who waits in thinly disguised turmoil at the far end of the aisle. Poised on the dais, wearing a black ministerial robe and a white stole, is the good friend whom Eva and know best as our guide on canoe trips through the Boundary Waters. He grins so broadly that his full cheeks push up against he round rims of his spectacles.

"There's one appy preacher," Eva says.

He believes in marriage, " I reply.

"So do I. Remember, Matt and I figured that between you and Mom and his folks, our parents have been married fifty-eight years."