When I was a girl, my mother’s glamorous, beautiful younger cousin fell in love. I remember visiting the dress shop where she worked with my great-aunt and seeing her engagement ring. She wore yellow knee socks and a blouse of some ethereal material and she was sitting in a big chair like a happy queen. But all was not happy. He was Mormon. This was the 80s. Many family members felt they could tell this gorgeous, happy couple that they couldn’t be together. I remember yelling behind closed doors and whispers in public. But they fought for each other and they won. Their wedding was full of yellow flowers.
Tonight, he’s dying of pancreatic cancer. His children, who were the ring bearer and a flower girl in my own wedding, are gathered at his side, his daughter facing the fact that her father won’t be at her wedding in June.
It was the first love story I knew. It’s always been the most romantic one, the Romeo and Juliet that ended the way it should. But now it’s ending too soon. And all our hearts are breaking.