Weary Memory, Part 1

A clearing in southern Georgia. All around, large thriving oak trees give the area both a sense of privacy and a sense of unity with nature. Rows of whitewashed wooden folding chairs create an aisle for the bride to walk down. Infront of the chairs stands a simple man. He is barefoot and in a worn suit. His beard and kind eyes are disarming and inviting. The bride stands beside him. She has a simple yet striking beauty that is irresistible. Her smile exudes kindness.

They love each other.

At the priest's prompting, they take the other's hand in theirs. Around her soft wrist is a simple wooden rosary with a small wooden cross dangling from it. His hands are rough and strong, but hold hers gently. They savor the contact. The priest gives them rings and they exchange them, a true symbol of true love. They kiss and he picks her up and twirls her once.

Pure joy and love.

Sunset of that same day. The couple strolls, hand in hand, grinning stupidly. They are unable to contain their joy. Behind them the chairs are being cleaned up from the ceremony. They walk in silence aside from the occasional burst of laughter. She breaks from his hand for a moment and picks a small yellow flower and sticks it in his hair. He smiles sillily and loves everything about her. He kisses her. A voice from the crowd behind beckons them. He takes the flower from his ear and slips it into his jacket pocket. They run off toward the group, hand in hand, celebrating the beginning of their new life.