Wedding Vows Remembering a Parent (2 Minutes)

The vows

Ayodele, on our second date we walked from the restaurant to the train, and somewhere around the bakery you switched sides with me so you were the one next to the street. You didn't say anything. I'm not sure you even knew you'd done it.

My dad used to do that. I hadn't seen anybody do it since. He'd have liked you, by the way. He'd have asked about your car within five minutes and argued with you about it for twenty.

You do that kind of thing all the time and never mention it. You warm up my car on icy mornings. You text when you land, even after a forty-minute flight. You remember the name of my dentist's receptionist. When I go quiet at dinner, you don't push. You just pull your chair a little closer.

So here's what I promise. I'll learn to read a map without turning it upside down. I'll come to your brother's band's shows, all of them, even the ones in that basement with the one working outlet. I will call you on my drive home so you're not the only one checking in.

I'm going to tell you when I'm sad, on the hard days in November, instead of saying I'm fine.

And I choose you, on the good days and the dull ones, for as long as we've got.

So keep walking on the street side, if you want. I'll be on the inside, holding your hand, knowing exactly what it means.

Why it works: Her dad shows up in two short lines tied to something Ayodele actually did, so the memory lands and then the vows move on. The small joke about the car keeps it from getting heavy. The ending goes back to the sidewalk, and the guests who caught the first part know exactly what she means.