I have never been so nervous. I have taken pregnancy tests and driving tests and spoken in public and moved across the country on a Greyhound bus and I have never been as nervous as I am right now standing on the top of a row of bleachers in a gym full of women and children waiting for a stream of identical uniformed men to walk through a faded brown metal door.
Surely my fuschia hair sets me apart from the blondes and brunettes. Surely he will see my sign, which only contains a runic symbol 12 inches tall. Surely he will see me in my Princess Hooah t-shirt.
How will I find him?
The men are marching in. They are filling the gym with the smell of dirt and heat. They are identical. They blend together in camouflage and tan skin.
I am surrounded by gasping, laughing, crying women. I am completely alone.
I am not alone. I see him. In the first row he is staring at me. I lower my sign. I laugh and cry and point, jumping up and down.
I belong here. He belongs here. We smile. We barely break gaze as the ceremony proceeds. We are surrounded by a formation of men and bleachers of women all bowing their heads to pray. We are alone, staring into each other's eyes.
The formation is released and the gym becomes a sea of tears. I step down and wait for him to come to me.
It has been 343 days. He smells better than I expected and he tastes exactly the same.
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