Epilogue--Part One

Saturday night I had the best time at Changing Hands. After the event, a group of us had dinner and swapped sob stories. Authors are solitary beings, so it's good to flock together now and then.

This is kind of longish, but I think I got everything in there. Shoot. Leesie's hair. I didn't mention what it looks like. I'll make Michael do that when we hear from him next. Or add a line when I revise it. Is anything else confusing or left out? This needs lots more poefying, but it gets the job done. I hope you like it. One more dive log and then that's the whole first draft. I'm exhausted. I hope I haven't worn you out, too.

After Michael's post tomorrow, let's take a few days off. I'll post the contest winners, Tuesday, February 8th, and then start posting revisions. Deadline for the contest will be Tuesday, February 8th, high noon, AZ time. I've got a fun event this Saturday with Girl Scouts, and lots of stuff due to my agent on Monday, February 7th, but you've all waited so long, I want to start sending out those prizes! Feel free to  let your followers on your blogs know and be sure to comment today!

EPILOGUE

LEESIE’S MOST PRIVATE CHAPBOOK

POEM # ??,

As I stand gowned in white

satin and lace glowing

with thousands of seed pearls,

shaking hands and hugging

a blurr of happy people

parading through the same gym

at our stake center next to the Spokane Temple

where Michael and I first danced, first fought,

 I’m not sure if this is real or one of the thousands

of dreams I’ve conjured of this day.

Next to me, there’s Kim, maid of honor,

BYU roommie bridesmaid’s and Stephie

looking too grown up in her matching dress.

Mom and Dad anchor the line wearing

truly happy expressions.

My bouquet is laced with pure white gardenias

in memory of Michael’s mom. I know

she’s here, smiling on us.

Michael beside me—very real in a black tux

with dark green leaves and white blossoms

fragrant on his lapel.

The guys next to him—shaking hands

and looking after Gram, who presides

in a big, cushy chair

are companions from his mission.

Yeah. His mission.

This day took three years

to happen post-baptism

instead of one.

After his baptism—

intense and beautiful in it’s simplicity

and purity, Michael glowing

and handsome all in white,

like he was at the temple this morning,

my dad in the water immersing

him with the same power, same hands

that gently lay eight-year-old me back in the font

and brought me out all new,

Gram, Stephie, Mom and me

in the front row holding hands and crying—

he walked four feet above the ground

until we went down to Utah

at August’s end.

He bought a condo in Orem.

I moved into an apartment near BYU

with Cadence and Dayla from last year.

Sundays trying to go to his ward and mine together

were crazy until I got called as Relief Society president

and couldn’t go to his at all.

He preferred his ward full of beauty school girls

and UVU students to my nerd-stocked congregation,

so he went by himself, and I hid my jelousy

until it boiled over in an ugly fit.

He took of for Cayman—stayed away three

long, lonely weeks, came back worried.

“It isn’t the same here—as in Cayman.”

“The gospel isn’t true in Utah?”

His face gathered into a knot.

“Just feels different.”

I nod—he’s right. “There’s nothing

like a branch.” Even the one

I grew up in. “More like a family.”

Is that what he searched for?

What he found? Not me? Not God?

He saw trouble storm my eyes,

kissed my hand like he always does,

and rested his cheek on my head.

“Be patient. Give me time.

There’s way more to being a Mormon

than I thought.”

I took the hint, backed off, let him breathe,

lost myself in classes and callings,

smiled when he took off to dive all the hottest

spots in the South Pacific, made the most

of the time we spent together,

and loved him wherever he was,

physically or spiritually.

He started classes at UVU after Christmas,

business stuff for when he and Gabriel

buy their own dive op.

(They are here, by the way,

Gabriel and Alex, sitting

at a table with Kim’s Mark,

and Jaron and his wife

who’s expecting their second,

eating chocolate dipped strawberries

and black forest cake.)

Michael liked school more than

he expected, enough to miss it

when we went home May to August,

where I worked with Dad on the farm,

helped Michael move Gram into Care

Center a private room

furnished with her own dresser,

chair, living room flowered rug,

and that picture of Michael

with his mom and dad in a giant hug,

bit my tongue every time Mom

lecture me like I was fourteen again,

and hung out with Stephie

who’d grown solemn and sad

over the past year.

Michael got ordained an elder

in August, and we made

wedding plans for Thanksgiving

if the temple was open.

Our first meeting with Pres. McCoombs

about going to the temple,

He shook Michael’s hand

and said, “I’m impressed, Bro. Walden,

to call you on a mission.”

“We’re getting married,” I reminded

him, sure he’d lost his mind.

He held up his hands, pleading

innocence. “I’m merely the messenger,

Sis. Hunt. The Lord wants him to serve.”

Michael got this look on his ace

like he’d just seen the First Vision.

“You’re not going to say yes?”

He jumped at my voice like he’d

forgot I exist. “Yeah. I am. It’s perfect.

Maybe I can get close to what you deserve.”

“Two more years?”

His face went pale. “That won’t be easy.”

He turned back to Pres. McCoombs.

“Can she go, too?”

“Not with you.”

“I know—I’m not that green.

She’s twenty-one in December.

Does your inspiration inbox

have a cal for her, too?”

So he went to Brazil, and I spent

eighteen months in the parts

of the Geneva mission that are in France,

caught in a visa war between the church

and the Swiss government.

My French is good.

His Portuguese is better.

When Jaron came through the line

earlier, he, Michael and the best man

all got jabbering—just hope it wasn’t

about me.

We shake the last hand, hug

the last hug, eat cake and throw

flowers. I avoid Kim who will give

me advice about my wedding night

that I don’t want.

My mom helps me change, cries

as she undoes twenty satin-covered buttons.

I hug her, cry, too, sense she’s missing Phil.

“I wish he could have been here.”

She closes her eyes and lifts her face

towards heaven. “He was. Don’t worry.

He was.”

I run through a shower of birdseed

to Gram’s old car that Michael doesn’t

have the heart to sell.

It’s covered in Oreo’s and

whip cream “Just Marrieds.”

I hug Stephie and Dad,

Michael tucks me in the front seat,

shuts my door, shake’s Dad’s hand,

who pull him into a hug.

“Take care of our girl, son.”

“I will, sir.”

“Dad.”

Michael hugs him again.

“Sure, Dad.”

At the end of the lane

that leads from the temple and church

to Highway 27, Michael hands me

an airplane eyeshade.

“What’s this?”

“Humor me.”

Our honeymoon is a huge

secret surprise. I play,

put it on.

“Thanks, babe.” He kisses me,

slips into an intensity

we’ve always held back,

has a hard time getting

free of my blindfolded clutches.

“We’re not going far tonight are we?”

“Hush.” He pulls out onto the highway.

Turns right. I think.

I slide over next to him—

gotta love that old bench seat—

chew on his ear while he drives.

He pushes me away.

“Get over there and buckle

your seatbelt or we’ll end up

in the back seat of this old clunker

after all.”

That sounds like a great idea, but

I obey—don’t want to ruin

all he’s crafted for our first time.

Where ever we’re going,

whatever it looks like,

whenever we get there, 

whether he’s chartered a boat

or rented an island, whether

it’s his condo in the Keys,

Cayman, or Thailand or

somewhere brand new,

it’ll be the wondrous

consummation

of the forever

we pledged

to our Savior

and each other

in His holy house

this day.