We drove to Rhode Island tonight, if going at the pace of a goat cart can be called driving,
leaving Brooklyn on a Friday night in June at 4:30
entering the long crowded
river of highway known as 95
joining cars hauling camping gear, bikes, canoes, bar-b-q grills (Home Depot's $2000 gas model, carefully stuffed between lawn chairs on the back of a pick-up), dads, grandmas, horses, aunts, teenagers, kids, bachelors and bachelor wannabees in open convertibles with white leather seats.
We tried looking at the bright side on this long amble, which was the presence of Paul, who we hardly see anymore, and loved hearing the voice from the back seat tell of friends and work, plans and memories, and where a future home for the newlyweds might be after they're newly wed,
and meeting with the priest
and the fact that
Krista's brief marriage
and Paul's non-Catholic-ness
(no, he's not converting)
will be fine,
after dispensations are requested
and approved
with maybe a
$700-$900
heartfelt donation to the church
(which includes the ceremony.)
But good couseling is going on,
the priest reassuring himself that they truly love each other
and will forever.
And discovering the tidbit of trivia, the kind that stick to Rock like lint,
that the number of Catholic priests ordained this year
for all of New York City diocese,
is
one.
Bless him.
And somewhere around 9:30 at night
when it is quite dark, and we're still, according to the sweet-voiced gps, 45 minutes from our destination, the landscape changed, and the headlights high-beamed on wondrous trees and sea grass and long stone walls and mysterious gardens, and over all,
stars.
And when we come home, to be greeted by Jess's hugs and pasta and laughter and the girls and their three lovely girlfriends, I grab Aicha, and pull her back down the dark driveway and show her the milky way.
And later the other girls and I go barefoot into the dark, just now, and gaze up past galaxies, searching for constellations we know.
And one of them, tall, the indian shawl around her lovely head and shoulders,
says she's never seen the milky way before. Or the shooting star, or a firefly.
But we're in Rhode Island,
In a big, big friendly house.
And anything is possible.
Photos to come.
love to all
d.
