A Full Heart

Justin's Fathers Take a Turn on the Dance Floor
Originally uploaded by graciecavnar

Grace Notes Column as Published in Tribeza Magazine, February 2008.
by Gracie Cavnar

A few years ago, a thousand miles from home on a glorious December day, I happily kneeled on the floor surrounded by dozens of local tchotchkes. I was in Antigua, Guatemala, making up welcome baskets, and writing notes to people I hadn’t seen in decades: a coterie of a dozen siblings that I married into as a child bride and with whom I spent my twenties, in each others lives and business, morning, noon and night, as close as thieves. My practice husband (and his “new” wife,) his brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces and their children—three generations of my old family were coming for a wedding. As I searched for just the right warm tone, faces attached to the names floated in my mind’s eye frozen forever young somewhere in the mid-seventies.

My new family and son, who was the groom, hovered nearby helping me with a million details, preparing our rented villa for the happy occasion. It was to be wedding co-headquarters, site of the rehearsal party, Christmas celebrations, and daily hospitality for the next two weeks, during which we could expect lots of face time with the descending clan of my ex. I had just learned that they would be with us through Christmas and the prospect of sharing so much with them after all these years, had me up to two martinis a night. But love was in the air and I couldn’t help but reminisce.

“Love will keep us together,” warbled the radio as my baby son rolled himself over for the first time and grinned, so proud of himself. My heart was full. Years later when his father and I couldn’t figure out a way to patch over misgivings and failed dreams, it was overwhelming love for our son that mandated civility. The lives of people with children are forever intertwined, and although we had been no good at marriage, for his sake we managed divorce pretty well. Time scabbed over the anger, sadness and guilt, smoothing them into a benign affection. Twenty-five years later we felt more like cousins, and remembrance of each other’s endearing traits put real smiles on our faces. We saw the best of both of us in him—the only success we shared.

Weddings are such a special time, unmatched for emotions run rampant. The congregation stands in witness knowing that a future stretches out in front of the new couple like a tumultuous river of possibilities. Their great karma invades everyone present as happiness energy bounces back to the bride and groom. Joy, love and hope are rekindled in one and all. What is more full of hope than a marriage? Perhaps it is a child, hoping that his far-flung, fractured family can reunite in celebration of one. We were doing it—coming together. It would be our joint wedding gift. There was a slight glow of pride mixed with nervous anticipation that we could manage such a feat.

Only one little niggling concern scratched at my stomach: my son adored both of his fathers, but they didn’t even know each other. How would they get along? On one hand, the beaming stepfather—a trusted mentor and collaborator, the generous host of the two-week party, supported by scores of attending friends. And on the other hand, the biological father—affable, an entertainer at heart, hedging his outsider status by showing up with his entire tribe. My son suspended between the two, needing them both by his side on his most important day. I stood in the middle with him, prepared to broker détente, the most challenging hostess duty of my life. I nervously watched as the two men finally met, my first love and my true love circling each other, gamely reaching out for safe and common ground. Why had I been so worried? It turned out to be our son.

As time ticked away, his fathers slipped into a relaxed, if slightly competitive, camaraderie, swapped stories and bragged about his exploits to each other and anyone who would listen; ran interference and logistics in this far flung place, making sure everything was perfect for him; co-hosted the bachelor party and—most difficult of all—kept his groomsmen in line.

When our son stepped into the nave of the ancient convent ruin, lit by 10,000 candles and a million stars, and looked out on hundreds of smiling faces, there side by side on the front row they beamed brighter than any candle or star. Later at the reception, celebrating guests gyrated and snaked around the room to a primal salsa beat. Suddenly everyone morphed into a big circle, cameras clicking away. In the middle: the two proud fathers swung each other around in a euphoric jitterbug. It was the icing on the wedding cake. Now it was their son’s turn to beam brighter than the stars. His heart was full. Mine too.