the caboose

I remember waiting forever behind those heavy wooden doors. Pale skin, blonde hair, a poof of white dress. I was a whiteout.

A whiteout with knocking knees.

My bridesmaids were doing their slow-motion sashays to the altar. It took forever. An eternity of walking. I was antsy, waiting there with my dad. In that frozen moment, I decided everyone should just sprint down the aisle. Who invented all this endless strolling and promenading anyway? I could feel the sweat puddling in my armpits. Thank God poofy sleeves cover a multitude of sins. And nerves.

For several seconds, we didn’t speak, my dad and I. Finally, he whispered.

“How’re you doing, honey?”

I exhaled for the first time in 53 minutes.

“Good. I’m good.”

Sure you are, Trace.

My heart wasn’t beating; it was shaking like a thousand maracas. And, oh, the heat. And, ew, the sweat. How can someone be this hot and still be alive? I wanted to rip my dress off. Not very serene glowing bride of me.

I looked at my dad, all dashing and handsome in his tux. He smiled at me with a sudden playful gleam in his eye. Uh-oh. I knew that look. He was up to something. I cocked my head at him.

“Well ….. you knnnow …..” he began, glancing down at the short train of my dress.

“….. every train …… ”

He was reaching into his pants pocket.

“……. should have a caboose.”

Um, what? I thought.

“Um, what???” I said.

Dad was obviously having some ill-timed but catastrophic break with reality. I stared at him and furrowed my brow. It was my wedding day, for God’s sake. I was seconds from my own slow-motion sashay down the aisle. My brow should not be furrowed. I should glow and shine and emanate bliss from every pore. Psychotic breaks were not very shiny.

Just then, Dad pulled something from his pocket and held it tight in his fist. He opened his fingers and there it was, flat on his palm: a little red caboose.

For a second, I just stared down at his palm. It didn’t register. My mind shot in all directions like a firework. Why does dad have a red caboose? Why I am turning to liquid? What is happening, for the love of GOD??

I tore my eyes from the confusing caboose in Dad’s palm and looked into his face. Sometimes, my dad can still look like a little boy to me, and in that moment, he could barely contain his 9-year-old self. I saw him right then, that boy, waiting with me behind the heavy wooden doors. I stood there with two people, really: the handsome man who was giving me away and the impish boy who was giving me a caboose.

And that impish boy was about to lose it. Oh, the glee! The childlike GLEE was practically bursting from his face.

Suddenly, it hit me too — the sublime silliness of it all — and we both started giggling. A grown man giving his daughter away and a grown woman waiting to walk to the altar stood behind the heavy wooden doors giggling over a little red caboose.

Hm. Maybe neither of us was mature enough to be doing this.

But I didn’t care.

Dad can be like a little boy, but Dad’s no dummy. As I took the caboose from my dad and smooshed it against the handle of my bouquet, all my nerves melted away. My knees quieted. My body cooled. I swear, even the sweat puddling in my armpits instantly dried.

All because of an aptly timed red caboose.

And when the heavy wooden doors opened, I walked with my dad arm in arm, little red caboose clutched tightly in my palm.

My Beloved looked perfect. Sublime. And nervous. I held my gaze on his and, in a split second, decided I wanted to give him some of what my dad had just given me.

So I smiled. Then I winked a wink just for him.

He smiled back and I knew he was okay, too.

It was all okay. We were okay.

Every wedding needs a little red caboose.

Because all these years later, everything we’ve been through, we’re still okay.

Happy Anniversary, my love.