Before Trent and I got married, somebody told us to take time on our wedding night to write in our journals about the day, so we could remember the little details we might forget if we waited. We did, but just scattered notes. We jotted down key words to jog our memories. We’d write it all out later, we thought, but we never got around to it.
I found those scribbles a couple of months ago, bullets on a notepad with the Hotel Monaco letterhead at the top. We were nervous, awkward, overwhelmed kids when we wrote those words and with five years between us and them, so much of their meaning has wandered away. But I could make sense of some of it.
I wanted to remember my sister driving me down Provo Canyon in the morning, practicing the song she sang at the reception that night. She belted “At Last” in the driver’s seat and somewhere along the way, I had a moment when it all felt real. I cried. I wanted to remember the moment and the crying.
I wanted to remember getting my hair done at the mall and doing my makeup alone in the food court bathroom. I wanted to remember “Dad’s peeing loud story” which he must have told me when my parents picked me up and drove me to the temple, but honestly, I don’t remember it at all.
I wanted to remember feeling relief in the celestial room before our sealing—relief from what, I’m not quite sure. I wanted to remember looking around the sealing room to see who was there—so many people, it seemed—and I wanted so badly to memorize the way I felt when all of those people lined up to hug and congratulate us when the ceremony was over. I felt loved like I’d never felt before. I felt like we had an army of people rooting for us. I felt like we could make it. I remember that well.
I wanted to remember the wind, the cold, and the dark, ominous sky. It was so different from the wedding weather I’d pictured. It was strange for late April, strange and beautiful.
The rest was a blur, even in my notes. I wrote that my Dad was like a game show host at the wedding dinner, walking around in a tux with a microphone. I wrote words like “madness” and “Fire in the Disco”—the song I danced to with my dearest, craziest, maddest friends. I wrote “Wild Thing”—the song I sang to Trent before we were rushed out the door through a line of smoky sparklers waving in the rain. We got into a filthy old Camry and drove away. And though it wasn’t in my notes, I remember looking back at the glow in the windows of the reception hall, the silhouettes of the people who loved us and rooted for us, and wishing I could go back.
But as we all know, we can never go back. No, not really.
So onward, Trent Murphey, onward we drive into surprising beauty of the big dark sky.
Listening to: Sam Palladio & Clare Bowen, “When You Open Your Eyes”