Here is what I did today while you were busy being happy.
I kept the smile up for four straight hours, the two muscles at the corners of your mouth pulling against gravity long past the point they usually clock out. You did not notice them ache because you were somewhere I cannot follow, some place made of promises and other people's faces, and I did not want to interrupt. So I just held the smile. That is my job on days like this.
Your hands were freezing. I sent all the warm blood inward, to the drum behind your ribs, which I had running fast and hard since the moment the doors opened and everyone stood. That standing-up, the collective hush, the music: I do not know what any of it meant, only that your chest tightened like a fist and your eyes did the thing they do, the salt-water thing, and I made the tears without asking permission because you clearly needed them and could not seem to start on your own.
You forgot to eat. There was a whole plate. I watched it go cold while you talked. You forgot water for six hours and danced anyway, on feet I had quietly swollen inside those good shoes, and I said nothing, because you were laughing and I would carry you across broken glass to keep that sound going.
Now you are lying down and finally still, and I can feel the whole day settling into me: the jaw, the feet, the wrung-out place behind your eyes.
I am so proud of you I can barely keep the heart steady.
One small thing, when you wake. A glass of water. That is all.
I have been thirsty since the vows.