Solstice. For us, the party lasts all night, a progressive feast that moves from house to house, cucumber salad, buttermilk soup, salmon with dill, cheese and cheese and cheese, a crab boil down by the harbor--and this year, a wedding.
At midnight, Lydia and Alex take hands and the Chief pulls a worn book from his pocket. We gather around to hear the vows. For now, we are solemn. And I think about last summer, about Alex and me, about Sevario so far away, and I feel like a rumple of yarn, all tangles and knots. Get over it, I remind myself. I want to be happy for my friends.
After the newlyweds kiss and Lydia flashes me her biggest small, we amble over to the restaurant for cake and Champagne. Rounds of toasts and congratulations.
In a lull, Lydia and I lean against the wall.
"It's your new life," I say.
"It's the same life. A good one. It's just moving along."
"We're all moving along," Lydia adds. "I just hope in the same direction."
I think about knitting booties.