near-empty church and reverberated in my chest. “I, Thomas, take you, Anne, for my lawful wife; to have and to hold; for better, for worse; for richer, for poorer; in sickness and health; until death do us part.”
Father Darby joined us in marriage, and in ringing tones asked that the Lord, in His goodness, strengthen our consent and fill us both with His blessings. “What God has joined together, let no man put asunder,” he boomed, and Mick called out a hearty “Amen,” which was echoed by Eoin, his little voice adamant and uninhibited by the solemnity of the occasion.
Anne produced the two rings I’d given her Christmas morning, and Father Darby blessed the bands. I was struck again by the symbol of the circle. Faith, fidelity, forever. If time was an eternal round, then it never had to end. With cold hands and hopeful defiance, Anne slid the ring on my finger, and I claimed her in return.
The rest of the Mass—the prayers, the communion, the blessings, and the recessional—occurred distantly, separate from the two of us, as though we’d slipped into a realm of muted sounds and subtleties where only we existed, and time was liquid all around us.
Then we were walking from the church next to Ballinagar, death on the hill behind us, our whole lives in front of us, the past and the present all dusted in white. Snow had begun to fall, the flakes like feathers floating around us, winged and wondrous, white birds circling above our heads. I tipped my face to the sky and watched them come, laughing with Eoin, who raised his arms to greet them while trying to catch one on his tongue.
“The heavens have sent doves,” Mick cried, pulling his hat from his head and embracing the sky, letting the softly falling snow rest on his hair and his clothes, adorning him in ice. Anne wasn’t looking at the skies, but up at me, her smile wide, and her face radiant. I brought her cold fingers to my lips, kissing her knuckles before I pulled her close, wrapping her in the pale-green shawl Maggie O’Toole had held during the ceremony.
“How often does it snow in Dromahair?” Anne breathed, her voice full of wonder.
“Almost never,” I confessed. “But then again . . . it’s been a year of miracles, Anne Smith.”
She beamed up at me, stealing my breath, and I leaned down to kiss her smiling mouth, not caring at all that we had an audience.
“I think God is blessing your union, Mr. and Mrs. Smith!” Mick shouted, and swooping Eoin up in his arms, he began to waltz and spin around us. The O’Tooles followed suit, pairing up and kicking up their heels. Joe O’Reilly bowed gallantly in front of a giggling Eleanor, and Maeve convinced a stern Fergus to take a turn around the churchyard. Even Brigid and Father Darby joined in the dancing. In the wintery dusk, our heads wreathed in snowflakes, we swayed, wedded to the moment, to each other, and to a Christmas that will forever live in my memory.
Anne is asleep now, curled on her side, and I can only watch her, my heart so swollen in my chest that I’ll suffocate if I don’t stay upright. The light of the lamp touches her freely, boldly even, brushing her hair and tracing the dip of her waist and the swell of her hip, and I am irrationally jealous of the caress.
I can’t imagine all men love their women the way I love Anne. If they did, the streets would be empty, and the fields would grow fallow. Industry would rumble to a halt and markets would tumble as men bowed at the feet of their wives, unable to need or notice anything but her. If all men loved their wives the way I love Anne, we would be a useless lot. Or maybe the world would know peace. Maybe the wars would end, and the strife would cease as we centred our lives on loving and being loved.
Our marriage is only hours old, and our courtship is not much older than that. I know the novelty will wear off, and life will intrude before long. But it is not the newness of her, the newness of us, that has captured me. It is the opposite. It is as if we always were and always will be, as though our love and our lives sprang from the same source and will return to that source in