Diamonds & A Ring Of Gold

I’ve been listening to U2’s “All I Want Is You” for three days straight.

The Ts are crossed and Is are dotted.

Abbi and I have scripted and scored our ceremony, fifteen copies of which are printed in a pink file folder with “Wedding” in big, block, Sharpie letters. “Honey” takes its own folder.

I have written my vows, some 307 word that clock in — unharried — at just over two minutes.

The bands — there are three: a string trio, a nine-piece r ‘n b band with horns (Mo’ Soul), plus the guys (Chris, Casey, Tony and Ryan) — know their cues.

My navy, two-button, single-vent Versace suit is cleaned and pressed. My black, wing-tipped Joseph Abboud dress shoes are packed safely inside my garment bag. Three pair of dress socks, two fresh-white undershirts, and a pair of blue-enamel cuff links all wait in their original packaging.

I am ready.

Everything looks different these days: deeper, richer, more textured. Everything seems symbolic: a man playing saxophone, an elderly woman leaning on a bus stop, a toddler gaining his legs. Everything unfolds in slow motion.

Tomorrow, we board US Airways Flight 204 for Charleston, SC. Thursday we apply for our marriage license at the Beaufort County Probate Court. On Friday — following the state-mandated 24-hour waiting period — we receive the license. On Saturday we sign it.

Then we’re off.

I’m pretty sure Abbi and I have no idea what we’re really about to do.

Which is completely awesome.