Was beautiful and the bride ethereal.
Americans watched half amused and half awed as my uncle conducted a full blown poruwa ceremony. Jayamangala gatha were recited with a hint of american accent but all good intention I’m sure. The groom’s mother looked ready to tear off the sari she had so enthusiastically volunteered to wear and the mother of the bride cried at regular intervals. But all in all it was interesting to see how two cultures met halfway and blended into one another.
The bride and I are first cousins but more like sisters. We swore to each other at eleven that we would never get married but we would live together like a slumber party that lasts forever. By thirteen though we saw the possibility of marrying Robbie Williams or Luke Perry. So we changed our minds and instead promised to be each other’s maids of honor wherever in the world we may be at that point.
As I stood there next to her, holding her bouquet of lilies and my end of the deal, I’d be lying if I said my eyes didn’t fill up just a little. But more than anything I thought of all those times I had held her, comforting her as she sobbed her heart out over some jerk who had broken her heart. Looking at the guy she was about to marry I suddenly wished that I could have saved her the heartache by telling her then that none of it was worth it because she would eventually marry this wonderful man who loved her beyond reason.