I reached the altar and turned to my audience. For a moment, all eyes were on me, making me feel for the first time I wasn’t just my mother’s opening act. For this moment, I was the headliner, and it felt good. So good that I began to understand why my mother took every chance she could to capture the feeling. The emotion. No matter how fleeting, no matter how temporary, it was her moment. But today, for the first time, I felt like it was our moment.

And what a moment it was. A suspended space of captured time when it was impossible not to imagine Graham standing opposite me on my magical day. What style tuxedo would he be wearing? What color tie? Would he be clean-shaven or sporting a beard? How many babies would we have? Would they be boys, girls, one of each? Twins? What would we name them? Something Biblical like Ezekiel or Esther. Where would we live? What color house would we have? How many rooms? Surely if it’s in Chicago we would have a wood-burning fireplace. Every Saturday morning, Graham would chop wood in the backyard in boots, shorts, and a red-and-black checkered wool coat. With every landing thud of the ax, I would quiver with the anticipation of his return. Thud, I’d quiver. Thud, I’d shiver. Until I’d melt like a thousand-pound candle in the heart of a burning house.

Later he’d bring in the wood bare-handed, his chest and arms covered with stray chips and sap from the tree. The sap would stick to his fingers and I would pretend it was honey from a honeycomb, ever so sweet, ever so tasteful. And I would lick them.

Then in the spring we’d go hiking in the mountains overlooking the shimmering waters and nature’s beauty. When I got tired he’d lift me in his arms, carry me step by step. As he would climb, he would grunt, and as he would grunt, he would climb. With each grunt, I’d quiver. Grunt, I’d shiver. And the more he grunted, I would become like a heated bowl of lava percolating hotter and hotter until finally, he would reach the top and lower me to the ground. He would grab my hand and lead me to the cabin. We would be warmed from the night’s cool air by the fire. As the flames danced their intoxicating dance, we’d make love. And what a seasoned architect of love he would be! He would know all the right places. All the right things. With craftsman-like skill, he’d build a house of love, laying the foundation with tender wet kisses, then pouring the concrete with firm yet gentle strokes against my backside. Erecting the structure slowly and surely, slowly and smoothly, till finally our house of love was built.