sometimes I think back

To that hot day. I think of it because the leaves are changing and the colors are so different now--the green fading, now orange and red, a new carpet. Sometimes I think back to the hail that woke us from our beds and the second time, bookending, causing our ballroom to feel a bit like the house in The Wizard of Oz--door flung open, newly minted husband to the rescue. I think of the way he smiled at me, how that smile seemed plastered on his face, how my M.Ed classmate had tears in her eyes when she spoke of the way he looked at me through the ceremony. How everyone is right, that the day is like a whirlwind, everything so surprising, how I cannot imagine knowing how brides panic and turn violently angry on this day--it's so beautiful, so wonderful, and short of Husband running off, it's a perfect day no matter with the exception of otherwise catastrophic events. Come hail, come poorly cooked beef, come faded curls, come dance lessons neglected, come anything and everything else. This day was good. Mandy and Beth could have been there, but barring that, it really was a perfect day, filled with so many of the people we love (and that love us, bless those silly folks!). I think of this, and I think of Alaska, and I think of the beauty of these fiercely red bluffs. I think of how being mentally exhausted at the end of the day means I am still thinking (even if I still feel a little closer to numbly stupid than vaguely intelligent) and I still get to read for my profession.

I spent my study hall supervision hour writing notes in turquoise ink on the book of poetry I am reviewing for CutBank. I am nervous; it will be my first time, and I want to do well. I am also reading a book of poetry that is quite unlike the kind I write myself--this is so good, this is exactly the purpose. I want to read more poetry, swallow it whole, figure out what makes other poets tick. I want to see the world through someone whose words evoke these: cacophony, juxtaposition, voices, duality, heritage, women & labor.

Tonight, I will think about the way he looked at me. I will think about the words this poet might use to describe that day--the texts she might play on, the way she would describe sweating in that giant, grass stained dress, the way the hail curved across the dance floor.