Wednesday, September 27, 2017

1Dck4Mck

Lincoln Park in West Seattle is redolent in sharp spikes, the suck of mud, bare legs, competition, all weather, teammate romance, old growth canopy, and always indicative of Fall. 135 acres and thousands of hours of volunteer effort make it a sanctuary amidst the gray chaos of Seattle. Mck, LB, myself and so many others present on this day raced together here, years ago. This park now encouraging us towards a bundle of trees, a path laid in petals leading to the bulk of an old growth tree. 
Earlier, over champagne, Red, LB & I got ready in LB's place off Aurora; a salute to the space we'd had so many ladiez weekends at, climbing the stairs to fall to the floor in a pile of racy movies, pita chips and hummus, waking up groggy - right out the door for a run to kick the booze sludge - a farewell to this dwelling. Red gets ready in all of 5 seconds, suited, watches football. We curl our hair, test new highlighters, try with aggression to get the damn lash bands to stick to the inner corner. I found this yellowgray corset thing thrifting, and pair it with a kimono. We tie the long neck ribbon on LB's beautiful floral dress; I can't get enough of the texture, the structure. Matt is a saint of a details man, and he gets us to Lincoln perfectly. Despite the suggestion that we dismiss heels in the park, LB & I are all for fashion and wear little kitten heels, so we prance in on our tip toes, clutching elbows.
In large jars are bouquets of baby's breath, signs with draped fern. The M.O.B. looks incredible in dark blue lace, a mock neck. Mck's sister has flown in from Ireland to officiate, dressed in emerald green, she gives a most tearful truth, and you're pulled in by the power of her love for her sister & Kris. The couple stand among the loose ends of white roses. They kiss. 
We head to the reception at Dakota Place Park Building, a former Seattle city light substation, brick, with period trim and hardwood floors. In one room, baby's breath and eucalyptus here and there among boards of toasted, thick cut bread and a bruschetta bar with pesto, fire roasted tomatoes, olive tapenade, artichokes and parmesan artichoke jalapeno spread. In the other room, a dance floor and dining tables laid with bamboo cutlery tied in hemp. Each person met is sweet, open, and in this you know that these two people are good, deeply, that they attract good. I'm beginning to float on the cab's red cloud, and I'm getting to know Mck's sister's Irish love, love watching his mouth form words, his accent, enjoy them together, talk Galway like I know how to feel about a place I've never been. I fall in love with them, because they're pleasant and we should be friends, but also because they are a more current symbol of a life Red got to live a long time ago, which I like to push into, siphon out, live in.
On top of the couple, we toast to the Lampi's and their announcement. Are called forth for dinner of pizza, baked off from a food truck, par-charred deliciously. The wine is endless. Speeches. A video of all stages. Beam when I see us three at Oktoberfest in Munich the year before. Wish for it back. And we danced. And we cried. And we laughed. And had a really, really, really good time. Take my hand, let's have a blast. And remember this moment for the rest of our lives. Our lives (our lives). 
The two cut the cake Mck made - a champagne cake, on the noses of them. At the end, with the sparklers lit, we salute. Someone has handed me a plate of the leftover cake, and I find myself walking around trying to dispose of it into the hands of party people, and somehow everyone is too full, and I'm forced to eat a little with my hand. I don't recall entirely, but I'm pretty sure the M.O.G. declares, "Gross." And I laugh, because, I am. 

Mck & Kris went out with us after. In some confusion, they went for karaoke and shots, and Red & I went for massive nachos and margaritas. The nachos were not smart. A few bites in and I about fell asleep on the table. Meeting back up with the Farrell's, Kris holds out his married hand and admires his ring.

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