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In 1969, many years ago,
January 11 was the happiest day of my life.
In the morning, a quiet breakfast
with Mama and Daddy,
the last I would ever have
as their innocent little girl.
Was this what I truly wanted?
They loved him (almost) as much
as I, and they only wanted my happiness.
I told them
I was never more sure
about anything.
Oh yes, my God … yes, yes …
Then came calls to the florist,
and to the band, and
would the cake be delivered by noon?
Did someone remember to order
the champagne for the toast?
And would my godmother
please man the guest book?
Who would be picking up relatives
at the airport?
At last, all was ready. The dress,
(oh the beautiful dress) ,
and the shoes, and the mantilla
to frame my face and hair …
the hairdresser! I nearly forgot!
My best friend was matron of honor,
precious sisters and friends, the maids.
Oh, and please don’t let the best man
forget the rings!
On the happiest day of my life,
my daddy gave me away and
I kissed the only tear
I had ever seen on his cheek.
Eight months later in Viet Nam,
September 5,1969,
became the saddest day of my life.
It was also the only other time
I've ever seen my daddy cry.
Time has a way of healing,
if you wait long enough.
Over the years, the mind assembles
little file cabinets and fills them
with drawers labeled with memories,
the drawers locked, but waiting,
should you ever need a peek inside.
There have been many, many,
happiest days of my life since then,
but once each year, on January 11,
I boldly unlock the drawers
to remember.
Had I known all those years ago
what was to be,
would I have made
the very same choice?
I am still never more sure
about anything.
Oh yes, my God … yes, yes …
and tonight, January 11,
I will again drink one toast
to love.
C.J. Heck
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C.J. Heck
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