I cried. Doesn't everyone cry at weddings? Chana, so tall and
thin in her new gown. And the veil that I lent her. The veil
that I wore twenty-two years ago. It matched the color of her
gown perfectly.
In the apartment, Chana's sister prodded, "Hurry! hurry!" I
replied, "A Queen doesn't rush. A Queen walks slowly, with
dignity." I was rewarded with Chana's queenly smile. Within
half an hour, I was walking Chana from the car into the well-
lit hall, our arms intertwined. "Where are we going?' she
joked dreamily. "Downtown? To the supermarket?" I grinned at
her. "To the Beis Hamikdosh! Every mitzva
brings the Beis Hamikdosh closer, and marriage is a
major mitzva." She nodded and closed her eyes for a
moment. "To the Beis Hamikdosh," she echoed. She
smiled ethereally and floated to the flower-decked chair.
She sat regally, fervently murmuring Tehillim, praying
for the names on the list she held in her trembling hand,
preparing herself, through a giving of herself, for a
continued life of giving, whose new beginning would peak in a
precious, treasured moment shortly to take place under the
chupa.
It was the smallest wedding I had ever been to. A dozen
elegant women, two dozen distinguished men. Chana and her
chosson were the same age, his birthday three days
before hers. She told me that she had chosen his birthday for
the wedding as her way of saying how happy she was that he
had been born.
There were tears and smiles as the chosson came to
gently cover Chana's face with the veil, my veil. I saw under
the chupa as I had never seen before. Spacious,
uncrowded. A select audience only. After watching the
chosson shatter the glass, it was as if I could see
the Shechina tenderly gathering up all the glittering
pieces and creating something whole, making them whole --
together.
The mazel tovs reverberated, with more tears and more
smiles, throughout the festive room, and the rest of the
short evening was filled with singing, laughter and foot
tapping. I stayed with Chana until a few others and I had
finished cleaning up. As I walked home, I felt refreshed,
rejuvenated.
On Shabbos, she showed me the gleaming emerald ring that
surrounded the loose, wrinkled skin on her thin finger. "My
chosson gave it to me for my birthday," she confided
shyly, joy radiating from her face. "For my seventy-second
birthday."
"Such a beautiful ring," I whispered, and turned away so that
she wouldn't see how very touched I was by the tenderness in
her eyes, how very privileged I felt at being involved,
included at close range, with this special shidduch.
And then I spotted the hooks at the other side of the small,
tidy living room. My faded off-white veil and Chana's
recently donned cream-and-gold gown, side by side, like
vintage loving newlyweds.
