Holding On
By Enid Cokinos
Jubilant
guests lowered the bride to the floor. Her expression was unmistakable: Thank
God that’s over!
My husband Todd reached out and took my hand as
we climbed the broad steps of the historic Cret Building, Indianapolis’s
Central Library. With its exterior of Indiana
limestone and Vermont marble, along with Greek columns and massive
wrought-iron gates at the main
entrance, it is easy to see why our friends’ daughter, Abby, had
chosen this impressive national landmark for her
wedding.
This was Todd’s first Jewish wedding and my
second—the first was my brother and sister-in-law’s wedding in September 1983. As
Todd and I entered the library, I couldn’t help but remember that day 31 years
before: Little did I know that I would marry less than two years later, nor could
I have known that my first marriage would end in divorce.
On
this September day, with the elegant cream and gold program in hand, we took
our seats in the Reading Room to enjoy the string quartet positioned in the
gallery above us. We marveled at the beauty of the space, the mixture of surfaces that played havoc with the acoustics: Marble staircases at either end
of the room, walnut and white oak bookcases, and two massive bronze
chandeliers.
The
program included descriptions of Jewish wedding traditions, providing me with a
much-needed refresher course on customs steeped in historical significance and
symbolism, some dating back to Biblical times. Terms like Chuppah (hup·pah), Kiddush (ki-ˈdüsh),
and Ketubah (kuh-too-buh) were further reminders of my brother’s wedding
day.
Wearing
a red dress with black diamond-shaped speckles and a wide-brimmed black hat, I felt
cultured being part of my brother’s wedding in a Chicago hotel, so different
from any I had ever been to before. I grew up in a Midwestern village (it was not
even big enough to be called a town), and much of the population consisted of
farmers and blue-collar workers. I am fairly confident that most, if not all,
of the residents had never met someone of the Jewish faith, let alone attended
a Jewish wedding.
Now, arm-in-arm, Abby and her father descended
the stairs to Clarke’s “Trumpet Voluntary.” She radiated joy and happiness. The
entrance to my own first wedding was an entirely different matter.
**
The bridal party entered the church filled with
guests and the doors closed. I took my place alongside my oldest brother and
heard the organ’s sounding chord—a deep vibration that struck the center of my
chest. The doors opened. I hesitated. It was my intuition telling me this was
wrong. My doubts would be confirmed within a few short years.
Shaking, I crossed the threshold of a church I did
not belong to, into a marriage I did not belong in, but it was too late to turn
back. The guests expected a wedding. The honeymoon was paid for. I chalked up those
second thoughts to last minute jitters, but in my heart, I knew the truth. I
was not ready.
My parent’s marriage was less than ideal, so I
had no clear vision of what was needed to make a life partnership work. Though
I loved my first husband, I came to accept that—on some level—he was an escape
from my domineering, possessive father. Without me, the last child at home, Dad
would be alone, and he was not about to let me go without punishing me, making
me feel guilty for wanting my own life. I remember the phone conversation when
I told my father he could not attend my wedding. He mumbled something akin to
an apology but avoided admitting any wrongdoing. I stood firm: he was not
welcome. Our relationship would remain forced and uncomfortable until the day he died, alone, less than two years later.
“Ugly crying” was evident in long-discarded
photos of my entrance. Emotions so dark and complex they could not be contained.
Sadness that my late mother was not there. Anger at my father’s behavior.
Confusion about who I was and why I was marrying someone ten years my senior. Resignation
that I must go forward. I suppressed each and every emotion and kept walking.
During the next eight difficult years, I would
learn what I wanted and needed from marriage, and that I would settle for
nothing less.
**
As the ceremony came to a close, Matt stomped
the glass. “Mazel Tov”—a wish for good fortune—and applause echoed through the library.
The fragility of the glass suggests the fragility of human relationships. The
glass is broken to protect the marriage with the implied prayer, May your bond of love be as difficult to
break as it would be to put together the pieces of this glass.
I was barely out of high school when my brother
married, so, unlike that ceremony, I had observed Abby and Matt’s through
experienced eyes. The eyes of a woman who married too young and learned the
hard way that marriages do break; the ending a mixture of relief and sadness. The
eyes of a woman who made painful mistakes in her first marriage and was blessed with a second chance to get it right.
I remember the entrance to my second wedding,
feeling so different from the first. The intimate ceremony with less than 50
guests took place in the front yard of our Colonial-style home nestled in the
woods of New Hampshire. A white tent had been set up in the front yard for
guest seating, providing privacy from passing cars and shelter from the
elements.
Typical of New England’s unpredictable fall
weather, it had snowed just days before. Most of our nervous pre-wedding
conversation centered on where we would hold the ceremony if the weather did
not improve. We needn’t have worried, it was a picture-perfect October day: 80
degrees, fall foliage popping with color in the bright sunshine, the air crisp
and clean, the sky brilliant blue.
My brothers were unable to attend, so I insisted
on making the entrance on my own. I finally gave in to my matron of honor’s
request that I let her husband escort me. I stepped out of the master bedroom,
took his arm, and descended the stairs to “Trumpet Voluntary.” Though I was
nervous, photos prove I was beaming (not an “ugly” tear in sight). I could not
wait to marry Todd, to become his wife fully and forever.
Fifteen years after my first wedding, I took my
place beside my new husband-to-be on the granite steps of the home we shared,
where I knew I belonged.
**
Abby and Matt’s celebration was soon underway,
replete with the ever-popular Horah performed to “Have Nagila.” Dancers hold
hands and form a circle. The circle spins as each participant follows a
sequence of steps forward and back. In its earliest version, dancers formed a
circle by linking arms over their neighbors’ shoulders, spinning so fast that
dancers were sometimes airborne.
Two chairs materialized on the dance floor in
preparation to lift the bride and groom. They took their places—a bit apprehensively
knowing what was in store. Abby’s eyes grew wide and darted around the room as
the raucous behavior of the groomsmen and other male guests rose to a steep
crescendo. Then up she went! I could
see her death grip on the chair from across the room.
The steps leading up to the heave-ho of the
groom were the same, and, although not a large man, Matt required more effort
than his slender bride. Panic filled his eyes, too, but he tried to remain cool.
Mercifully the chairs had arms, eliminating the
need for grasping and clawing at the chair’s seat or back. Still, it was most
unsettling, as they were mere inches from the ceiling, their safety in the
hands of overly zealous, intoxicated revelers. I could almost hear their silent
prayers that they not be jettisoned across the dance floor or end up in a heap
at the feet of the “chair-lifters” as the Master of Ceremonies repeatedly
called out, “Not too high…not too high!”
I considered the dance’s symbolism, reflecting the
ups and downs of marriage, as I watched Abby and Matt bouncing and jostling
about. Spinning out of control at a breakneck pace in your daily life with work
and family, trying to get your bearings. Struggling with adversity in all
shapes and sizes. And worse, feeling like you are alone in a marriage, grasping
for solid ground, and continually reminding yourself, “Just hold on, it will
get better.” I know that feeling.
Abby white-knuckled one arm of the chair while
grasping a linen napkin in her free hand. She flipped the loose end toward
Matt, stretching so he could grab the cloth as he struggled against the
unsynchronized bouncing. I held my breath until finally, he had it! I relaxed and silently cheered their success.
Yes, I know that
feeling. Reaching across a chasm of chaos for the partner I've chosen from a
place of confidence rather than confusion—and knowing that as long as he is
there, I trust that I can reach out willingly.
Enid Cokinos’s plays include Night Train (2016 New Faces Program, Suffield, CT), Fairy Godmother & Associates and Now and Then (2016 IndyFringe DivaFest), and Sweet Virginia (2015 IndyFringe/Indiana Writers Center Short Play Festival). Her work also appears in the online journal 1:1000, and Story Circle Network’s 2014 and 2015 True Words Anthology. She resides in Carmel, IN with her husband, Todd.