I am going to marry the man I love.

He�s a good man � compassionate, spiritual, generous, fun.

We are going to get married in the spring, when breezes are still soft and cool and leaves, verdant and heavy with fragrant blossoms, fan the air.

Our union will be blessed by God.

He will never look so handsome. And I, swathed in sugary yards of silk, satin and chiffon, will never be as beautiful.

I will celebrate my love with my friends and family. Some will travel from the piney woods of East Texas, from the Ozarks of Arkansas, from the Sahel and savannahs of Africa.

I will smile until my cheeks cramp, laugh until my stomach hurts. And I will dance with the man I love.

But the night before last, as I flipped through wedding magazines, I cried.

I am overjoyed.

But I have never missed my mother so much as now.

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