Silverscreen

          Oh, man, fall weather. Stepping off the plane this afternoon, breathing in that fifty degree fall air after the soul-sapping heat of Arizona - it was profound relief, deep gratitude. Happiness. I need seasons. I need cold weather.

          My brother's wedding was fun. Quirky. Small. Personal. A fitting representation of the life he and his wife have together.
          The whole thing was cinematic. But not an airbrushed, frothy, Hollywood sort of cinematic. More like an indie, low-budget-but-heartfelt cinematic. Real, yet still so perfect as to be nearly celluloid.
          They had an outdoor wedding under the Arizonan sun. The weather was lovely, a little too hot, but beautiful and golden. There were mockingbirds in the trees around the garden (the prickly pears were covered in fruit and the dry shrubs were in blossom). The bridal party was formal, but relaxed, in mismatched suits and dresses. They were married by a mutual friend who had gotten his license.
          They wrote their own vows, and they were sweet and funny and honest. I admit that I got a little choked up. At the end of the ceremony, a storm rolled in out of nowhere, these deep clouds just roaring up, the wind snatching dust into the air as my brother and his new wife were walking down the aisle. There was lightning, distant thunder. The hot air shook with it. It was beautiful counterpoint, the other bookend to the storm that raged outside the night he proposed to her.
          The reception was great, with good music (no DJ, just an iPod full of music they like), good food (the best filet mignon I've had and fantastic red velvet cupcakes), micro- (and macro-) dancing, an open bar, and our ridiculous relatives and friends.
          There wasn't a sense of facade or spectacle. They weren't doing this for anyone else but themselves. It felt silly and loving and genuine. Not once did I wonder, as I always do at weddings, if it will last. It's so obvious that they love each other - the kind of love that inspires them to work at the relationship, to fight for it. They're ingrained in each other's lives.


          I'm left feeling happy for them. And odd, for myself.
          There's this half-hopefulness that's woken up, risen from the dead, in my chest. It's been so long since I felt it that I've forgotten how to live with it. It's coloring things; it's set this foggy, dirty glass in front of my eyes, and discontentment has come back into my life. I've been doing so well, expecting nothing, disappointed by nothing. And now this living-life romantic comedy (complete with heartbreak and misunderstandings that endear the characters to you even more, strengthening your conviction that they belong together, are right for each other) has gone and revived the hope that I'd killed off once before. I'm working on ignoring it. Maybe neglect will shove it back down into the unknowing recesses of the brain.
          I'm perfectly happy being happy. I'd much rather be happy and hopeless than disappointed and hopeful.

          But in the end, I had a fantastic week. It was refreshing getting away from school for a little. Really fun hanging out with my brothers, the three of us as adults. Getting to know my sister-in-law and her friends. Seeing wicked, funny relatives.
          Nothing but the good.