Wedding

They’re not young, one might say they know better, but that’s the thing about love. It’s a persistent, tenacious bastard, love. It seems it will continue to look and look until it finds the right perch.

I know one young woman who is experiencing her first big heartache. “How do people do this?” she asked, through the tears of sorrow and loss. How do you start all over again, knowing about the pain?

It’s a fair question. I don’t have the answer. Our hearts seem to never stop moving toward love.

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Sometimes I get to marry folks; sometimes I get to photograph them. This was a particularly great one because it was just the two of them. The three of us, actually.

They could not stop smiling, laughing, touching, kissing. And the weather was perfect, too. They did the thing, said the words, gave each other rings, then we wandered around taking pictures, talking. I thanked them for loving each other so much because the world needs it so badly, the radiant energy that true love gifts to everyone and everything around it.

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We went to Arlington to the covered bridge. “It’s the second most photographed thing in Vermont,” the farmer who lives nearby told me. “What’s the first?” I asked. “I don’t know, “ he said. “Well you should probably find out,” I told him while the newlywed groom was using his phone to call the tow truck.

Their cute little car, a 1970 MG broke down when we had finished all of our photography stuff and were getting ready to head back to Dorset.

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They were probably tired, wanting to get back to the inn and take their fancy clothes off, maybe, but had to deal with a brokedown car. I watched carefully during this part because you can tell a lot about a couple when they have to respond to a small crisis, solve a problem.

They were kind, so kind to each other. Helpful, patient, tolerant. Resourceful. I drove her back, he waited for the tow. Told them I’d be happy to take them home to Saratoga the next day, we were going anyway, but they made it back to their new married life on their own, just fine.

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