Traverse City

It was nearing midnight when I fell asleep and 1:45 am when I woke. Bag packed minimally. Cereal in a mug and a black night's drive to the airport, walking straight on the plane in perfect timing. The observer in me enjoys the petri dish of people at the terminal, but there are more to count on to be selfish than there are to be selfless & it's daunting. A 4-hr flight into Chicago; I left security for a day-pass at O'Hare's Hilton gym. For $22 bucks I got to run 11 miles to bad television, foam roll, stretch out the pube, swim laps, sit in the steam room and freshen up. Tucked into a nook on one of the terminal appendages, unsure of the gate, with 10 hours to kill, I had a couple hours of rest on the floor beneath a window watching planes, playing sleep-footsie with an elderly asian woman sleeping, somehow, suddenly beside me.

Aboard the small plane to Traverse City, 1 hr. long, and the beautiful Mads J comes hauling to the curb, squealing, with black wiry Farley yipping beside her. One of my dearest friends, picking me up in the midst of her wedding planning, in the midst of hurricane whatever that came through town stealing trees and docks and power lines. Brought me through the OG T.B. for a crunchwrap supreme and cherry cola. Later, tucked into her bed with Farley, talking and catching each other's voices like children with nets to craneflies. Sound machine. I fell asleep crying. A bad dream, sleep talking, and travel-heavy nose breathing until the morning when she rubbed me awake for cereal & coffee. We had time together, before she became a Byrne: accompanying her to the reception venue, her aunt's grounds, a white circus tent over the tennis court, planting flowers, an ice cream truck in the barn, pressure washers on the roof, sprinklers, volleyball, a wedding planner asserting. Giving me directions to the nearest track, I ran along E. Shore Dr., along the East Arm of the Grand Traverse Bay, along uprooted trees, piles of debris and felled lines electric, to Traverse City Central HS for a track workout. The red track was in a process of re-paint. Shirtless men with carts of white paint curling, tape measurers blowing, and I, leaping; took the workout to the streets. On to showers and hard-salt crusted focaccia sandwiches called, "Gobblers" from Mary's Kitchen Port downtown. Picking up ice from Burger King in bags like a local. Getting mani/pedis from the poor carpal-tunneled wrists of kind souls in a dim lit room.

Left to savor another espresso, sitting in the kitchen, writing her. Snapping the neck of a white bunch of buds and placing both on the pillow of her bed. Feeling both selfish for stealing time and necessary because what Time is left? Met The Sara/h's for the rehearsal dinner at The Filling Station Microbrewery; an all-inclusive feast the Byrne-Klumpps had graciously provided. Served: Greek Eurail salad, pizzas with names like The Overnighter, Wolverine, Cock o' the Walk and the Silver Fern, as well as all beers (my favorite: Track 5's Walla Walla IPA - 7.6% ABV - a German Pilsner and Carapils malt with demerara sugar, locally grown Empire Farms Chinook hops, and grapefruit pith, resin and citrus fruits on tongue). Out the window, the tracks and drizzle. Our walk to The Little Fleet, which was hosting another marry-fest, supplied with a realistic dolphin cake who's interior was red velvet, a modern day Steel Magnolias. Us beneath the tents in the middle of a circle of food trucks like Austin, Texas. And on to another bar for a summer shandy night cap. The Sara/h's and myself fell asleep in our top floor apartment on loan.

Wedding morning we ran what we could in search of the coast, finding a missing dock dog and dodging bramble. Coffees and toasted bagels with Sara/h's, then suit up, heels on for the main show at St. Joseph Catholic Church, 10 miles up Old Mission Peninsula. Sitting in pew, wood, lush, stained glass figures with animated & emotional faces, a Priest here and there and altar boys, a slow cadence of a family member's throat song, the pianist, all heads turned everywhere but straight, before the procession, Conor, dapper, Mads J in a most touchable cotton dress, hair at shoulders, and her organized fingers and toes. A Catholic affair, save the communion, the blood and the flesh. Like a musical until, they kissed and looked proud in the line that spread between their mouths, almost touching.

Us all in a line to touch them. Touch the good, the marriage, the memory of Boulder. The memory of a walk across the street. Below this glint of Michigan sky. She pointed to the white buds in her hair, "Guess Where? From Whom?" And I, speechless. Still speechless, still holding onto this story, unsure. Because. A woman thought to put my flower in her hair. The cars in a line, departed. We went to The Jolly Pumpkin. To start, a cider-style mimosa in a thin, long glass. Slow-smoked pulled pork nachos on white corn tortilla chips with pepperjack, dried cherry salsa, and cilantro-lime sour cream. Toasted cous cous veggie salad, Rocket arugula salad with mango ginger stilton cheese, apples, spiced walnuts, dried parsnips and champagne vin. A couple pizzas on special incl. one with large slivers of beet. Baked mac&cheese with crispy pancetta & jolly pitchers filling jolly pints. Everyone, jolly, buying memories in shirts, wading to the water, walking in, toes wet and all those reeds. Sitting beside Marilyn, a soul whose smile inhabits both portals - the eyes and the teeth. And her children, the earth wanderer activist earring maker, the natural gorg. fire of red curls, so inviting, and her new fiance, another addition, only addition, no subtractions. Sandy feet, bodies drying, cat naps, and half promises before, finally -

The reception, outdoors, at the home of Doug and Kristin Mirabelli, uncle&aunt. Kristin is a fox: tall, elegant, catsuit wearin', laughter & sarcasm on the eye without inviting the mouth. The sun began to fall, darker still beneath old, thick trees and all their limbs. I thought a wedding, a wedding. That they'd all eventually become the same. But, the wedding previous I could not stop dancing. Everything felt fluid: water, gorging, release, dancing with people, dogs, babiez, you put a thing in front of me and I wanted to experience it physically, I wanted to kiss lips & steal polaroids, I wanted to make everyone laugh. This was different. This crowd. Those emotions. There was more of sifting, reaching deeper, from what it means to be who you are or were, to the neighbor who died that very morning, his daughter outside beginning to run, Farley left at home because he bit a chicken in the ass, all the trees thick in root and up-heaved, to new sickness and tears in the eye of the son. It was soul musik-fed. It was soulful, the inhabitants of this Michigan-moment, and it was so hard.

Ever revolving hors d'oeuvres were served from a thai-fusion foodtruck: takeout boxes of cold noodles, sushi, pita with puree, souffle, these chicken bits saturated in hot orange and sweet cream sauce. An ice cream truck with the rubbery sweet, chocolate bit treats to tickle the top of the ice cream peaks. I was buzzing = drank a bottle of prosecco, refill, refill, lit all the candles & felt useful, tried to understand what felt so heavy. Until, it came - this was the last time I'd see them.

Have you ever made a memory willingly? Like - I'm going to remember this - Everything in me says Remember. I was standing beside the white thick of a circus tent leg, watching the lead singer, and felt a gravitational pull, felt compelled to watch this son. Watched as he removed his suitcoat, folded over a chair. Felt semblance, despite a courtful of people, like he hurt but was trying to dance. And he moved to the pole where I was holding my hurt, and he brought his hurt, and he said things unimportant to profess, but extremely important to my heart. I must have said something unhelpful, because what I really wanted to be was helpful, and when you want to be, you rarely are. And we both tried to dance in circles around the tent to an incredible treble, until he tried to dance with me & I was incompatible. I wanted to be good. But I had no more dance left. So, weddings are not "a wedding, a wedding," unless you're living in the shallow.

Hugging Mads J and Conor farewell. Tearing. In the car to 8th, preemptive hugs goodbye to The Sara/h's, a goodnight text of Iloveyou from Mads J, a quick sleep, a talkative Taxi-man, curbed at an airport synonymous to BLI. Indecision. Preservative-packaged plasticized meals and so-so coffee. But feeling good in that step to get home. Reading Atwood on the small plane. Purchasing a quicker ticket, boarding that Seattle plane quicker, feeling reined and reining, nostalgia, loss, supportive & supported, upset, like disappearing, like thrift-shopping, like becoming entirely engaged in the recycled fabrics of some small town, and outside of all of that emotion. Everything was worth it and everything is clear; who loves who and for all the hows and whats.