There’s something both kitschy and sad about a Jersey boardwalk, but also comforting. Especially in September, when the crowds have gone but the sun still lingers, and you’re with your friends for the weekend in a gorgeous house your sister’s father-in-law owns, and everyone is taking care of you, and the weather is perfect, and you watch a wedding take place on the beach, and you chuckle and think you made the right decision by sticking to the city for your own wedding.
And then you forget all about it when a dead dolphin washes ashore, and your thoughts change to the impermanence of this all, to how sinkholes can swallow towns in Louisiana and new islands can appear after Pakistani earthquakes, and then you circle back to the reason you’re getting married to begin with, which is, at its core, an attempt to forge something permanent in a place so temporary, so ever-shifting.
We indulged all weekend. A lot. But I feel greedily at peace with it all — the 11am cocktails, the double cupcakes. So much cheese, so much pizza. The lounging, the laughter. My whole body has felt light and fluid since then. I came home overwhelmed; too much friendship, too much love, too much grace. Our house is a mess — boxes everywhere, bags and bags of books (decoration for the wedding). There’s still so much to do, only not really, just some stuff that needs to be wrapped up, and I’ve reached the point anyway where I don’t care. The details don’t matter anymore. All the important stuff is done. All the love has surfaced.