Thursday

Saturday morning comes slanting in, ducking its head for us.  I read my mother's letter.  As usual, she reads my mind.  Somehow I am still carried by the ship of state that left her slip the day before and don't delay but find some cream-colored stationery in the desk by the window and fill a page with careful explanation.  It's truly remarkable how quickly I grasp the requirements of the office.

As I write I can see the little boy looking on at this grown man, suddenly quiet and solemn at what seems a minor task; I can sense his uncomprehending stare.  Perhaps he is awed, perhaps he is impatient, perhaps he is bemused.  Then I feel his impatience turn to grief:  the blossoms falling, the smell of cut grass, the golden acorns littering the sidewalk, they are no longer there for him, merely there for anyone who sees them.  And he must take from them what he can.

And the day before, standing in the center of that circle of stone, I have already told the world-- my family, my friends, what can truly be called the world as far as I am concerned-- that I know this finally and completely, and now they know that I know.

And like a swift ducking in an ocean wave I find my eyes opened, smarting and the truth all around me and containing me, a truth so big it's another world.  She is my only point of reference and I instinctively take her hand.  She and I stand in the immensity.   This is what the man knows and the little boy cannot know.

And, of course, standing behind the little boy is his mother.

So I do not delay.  I write the careful explanation, I write her title on an envelope and seal it carefully-- then, a bit shamefaced, as this, like so many other details, was one that should have been finalized days, even weeks ago-- I call my mother and tell her yes, we will need a ride to the airport.  She must read this before we leave, must not be kept in suspense.

And now the sun truly sets on our marriage:  we take a late morning bus from downtown to the sleepy bustle of Westmoreland and gratefully stretch into our our baggy weekend clothes.   There is one last occasion:  a brunch at Kay's, where we finally-- for shame!-- introduce ourselves to the bartender Jeffrey (a thousand apologies to him-- I have not seen his name in print) and explain to him that his bar saw the dawn of our married life and is now witnessing the sunset of the first day.  Also attending:  (from the left):  Debbie, Dena, Stan, Mary, Lindsey, Evelyn, Gina Marie, Meredith, Aaron, Justin.   This is the family I am gaining.  I now have siblings...  I scarcely know where to begin.

It's too short a time before we are packing and wondering why we didn't do it before.  Then a restless night followed by hurried coffee and my mother early and encumbered with a clutter of minor questions.

She's so distracted on the way to the airport she drives over a low divider at the Powell/ I-205 on-ramp.  Her explanation:  "I was looking left".  We arrive without further incident and with my letter safe in her hands.  Then the rude awakening of the TSA and their schoolmarmish fluid restrictions and stocking feet and belts in trays.  But my face, scrubbed clean as it is, newly rinsed as it is, can keep smiling even in the midst of this tiresome routine.  In fact, one endears himself by advising me when I offer to take off my ring.  "Not that.  Never take that off."

The flight is interminable, with a thousand glimpses at the slowly inching pictogram of the jet tracing its white line across the Pacific.  By the time we see the low blockhouses of Honolulu International we are already nearly a half hour late and running for our connection.  We are so close the agent has to shout directions to us as we jog into the breezeway.

But we make it, we make it.  Thank God.  And it is not jets but props we hear, not a compact screen but a featureless drink tray, a small price to pay for the blessedly short flight from Honolulu to Kona.