Angie & Matt

Matching printed pajamas came first. Angie's bridesmaids piled onto a white sofa, then traded the pajamas for a spread of green dresses, each one a different cut and shade, from moss to emerald. Angie stood by a tall window in a clean, sleeveless gown, and her father got a quiet kiss on the cheek before most of the house had seen her. Out on the lawn, her cathedral veil caught the breeze and drifted sideways across the grass, which told me early that the wind would be part of every frame.

The ceremony sat under a canopy of old trees gone yellow and orange at the tops. Wooden folding chairs curved in a wide arc on the grass, and the whole crowd stood as Angie crossed the lawn on her father's arm, her train sweeping behind them. Groomsmen in black tie lined the far side. When it was over, Matt dipped her low in the aisle, petals already scattered on the grass, and the front rows lost their composure. Portraits followed in low sun, with a single blazing maple doing the work of a backdrop.

Cocktail hour spilled along a stone path between the barns while the trees kept turning behind it. Dinner moved into a clear-top tent hung with greenery and chandeliers, round tables set with white roses, candles, and bentwood chairs. When the first dance started, guests packed in so close around the floor that the couple barely had room to turn. Angie and Matt shared a kiss over the cake, and a pair of friends near the speakers were still singing at full voice long after dark.