They’re folded into purple and black satin, and the flowers white and the mountains make a jagged rim around the edge of a turquoise pool.

I remember how Trent and his dad argued the definition of a mountain on our drive into Jasper and all I know is, they are beauty.

There’s no tiring of beauty, and it’s here, in this union of man and wife, the oldest, most sacred union made pure by white and ring and kiss sealing it all. And they braid purple and white cords together while the elk and the moose bow low in the bush and there’s a hush amongst us standing, the few witnesses on this isolated island reached only by bridge.

It’s a hush of people remembering: the vow. The cool slide of gold on finger, the pronouncing man and wife and the flower petals falling. Some now divorced wondering when did the petals fade? When, the gold become tarnished, the white stained? When did the guitarist stop playing and the bridge to the island break in two?

They’re signing their names and smiling into camera and it’s easy to believe in love when it’s packaged so perfect. But it’s in the fevered of brow, in the folds of skin and the marks stretching and the feet of crow, in the empty bank account, in the empty bread box, in the morning breath and the nighttime snoring, that love is.



Their definition lies in their beauty: in the rugged, jagged, ice-covered crevices and in the peaks that touch heaven.

Thanking, with Ann

391. weekend wedding in Jasper
392. hike in mountains
393. cozy bed and breakfast
394. my little boy in a bow-tie
395. my husband and the way he couldn’t stop kissing me that day
396. safe at home
397. new perennials and the way everything is blooming
398. nachos with homemade salsa
399. fuzzy blankets
400. a week of good night’s sleep