First Times
Like millions of other people along a narrow strip spanning the United States, I found myself looking up. I milled about on the deck of our new house which, two years prior, we had unknowingly built only a couple hundred meters from the exact center of the path of totality of the solar eclipse that began an hour earlier. Sadie was there, as were most of our children: Robbie, Keishor, Christopher, Chance, and Gemma. Joey and Tyler were missing; they were watching the event at school.
It was Monday, August 21, 2017.
I had modest expectations for the eclipse. I knew it would be an interesting, possibly once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I knew what it would look like, having seen photos. I knew it would be a unique sensory experience — the temperature would drop, animals would behave strangely, shadows would look strange — having read descriptions. I knew that watching it was something I wanted to do with my family, even if the younger children wouldn’t remember it. I knew that this would be a neat natural event, like a particularly heavy snowstorm or an especially pink sunset.
So as my eclipse timing app counted down toward zero I helped to prepare the children’s glasses and I talked to them about what was happening. I taught them about the eclipse rationally, scientifically. They listened with varying degrees of interest consistent with their varying ages. Sadie, like a good improv partner, asked questions that allowed me to show off my Dad Wisdom.
Despite all of that — despite all the research I did and the photos I had seen and the descriptions I had read and the app telling me exactly when every step of the eclipse would occur at our precise geographic location — I wasn’t ready for it. I mean, I was ready for the eclipse, but I wasn’t prepared for the experience of the eclipse. That moment was so beautiful, so mesmerizing, so damn cool. It was, in a way I cannot fully convey, an all-encompassing mind and body event.
I remember the moment well. I remember looking up in awe. I remember looking at my children, hoping they would capture and retain even a tiny sliver of wonder from the event. I remember putting my arm around Sadie and, together, looking up.
The morning was warmer than it should have been. The forecast spoke of highs in the mid-80s, but even as it first rose over the trees it was clear that the sun had every intention of firing on all cylinders that day. My friends and I awoke early to set up chairs, move tables, and prepare. We returned to our cabin, showered, and put on our tuxedos.
It was Saturday, July 5, 2003.
Sadie and I wanted to get most of our photos out of the way before the ceremony. It would make the day go more smoothly, we reasoned, and it would mean that our guests wouldn’t have to mill around while waiting for the reception to begin. Of course, that meant that we would have to violate the old tradition of the bride and groom not seeing each other prior to the ceremony. We were over it. The Jewish bride and Methodist groom were already bucking tradition in a hundred other ways.
I left the cabin, drove the short distance to the lodge where Sadie was getting ready, and waited outside. A small group waited with me, most of them with cameras in hand to capture the moment. Soon, Sadie appeared in the entryway.
Sadie and I first met in August 1992. Our first date was in December 1996. After all those years, I knew her and I knew what she looked like. I knew that she almost never wore makeup. I knew that “doing her hair” meant deciding between a ponytail or pigtails. I knew that she looked best in casual, comfortable clothing. I knew that she knew that she didn’t have to try to impress me, that I was most impressed when she was precisely herself.
Despite all of that — despite knowing Sadie for over a decade and dating her for nearly seven years and living with her and seeing her every single day — I wasn’t ready for it. When the doors opened and I saw her in her wedding dress for the first time, I was floored. There before me was Sadie, the same Sadie I had always known, yet somehow different and new. I saw her through fresh eyes in that moment. The world stopped. It was love at first sight.
I remember very little of that day. Most of my memories come not from me, but from photographs. We got married outside by a pond, we had a reception in the nearby lodge, there was food, we danced, it was hot. I remember almost nothing of the ceremony. I can’t recite for you our vows. I know what song was played for our first dance but I do not remember the dance itself. However, today on our 21st wedding anniversary, my first without her, I remember that moment when I saw Sadie for the first time again as fresh as if it were yesterday.
I am drawing upon many “first” memories for comfort today. They are not enough — no memory ever will be. But they are good and warm and happy, and for them I am thankful.