During the few months leading up to our big day, I imagined the moment when Cliff would walk me down the aisle. I would lean into him as I’d done for the better part of my adult life. He would offer his never-in-a-gym bulging mountain man arm for me to wrap into. He would have said something “Cliffy” in that moment meant only for me but loud enough for the guests, the birds and the bears to hear. Whatever he uttered would have been unpredictable with the exception of the inevitable endearment “Honey” spoken like a punctuation point; laden and dripping with golden sweet richness.
Guests wrote on prayer flags and tied them to the Aspen tree under which Cliff and I would have begun the wedding walk together. Strips of wispy white cotton blasted prayers, love and grace which emboldened the steps I took alone.
Not alone.
Despite many kind offers to walk me down the aisle no one could have taken Cliff’s place.
Musical notes leapt from Leslie’s violin and danced with birdsong. I began the walk, seven years ago today.
