I’d like us to take a walk together.
Let’s go over to the park and watch the ducks in the water. Let’s visit that museum and learn a bit about the war—we could walk over to the next town. Let’s walk on and on, until we break a world record for all of our walking.
But first I’d like you to meet me somewhere. It doesn’t have to be today, now, but one day.
You’ll have to do a little bit of walking yourself to meet me, and I can’t make that walk with you; somebody else must take up that role. Customarily this a man, but they are your steps to take, my love, you can choose anyone you wish. And I’ll be right there, waiting. In fact, if you look up, you’ll see me just at the end of the path.
Before we start this walk, would you say a few words? I’ll say one or two myself. Then we may have to take some pictures, and stop to speak to a few people—they won’t be strangers, they’ll be the people who love us most in all the world.
Then we can take that walk, you and I. We’ll do some sightseeing, perhaps take a swim. If you hold on to my hand, I’ll never let go of yours. Even when you don’t want to walk through that field where the grass grows too high, or you’re frightened of walking when the sun has long set; my hand will remain in yours, my feet keeping step.
But on this day, when you’ll meet me somewhere, I must warn you that there is a long-held expectation on how you’re to look. Because though we embark on a long walk that day, you may choose to wear a dress.
I think tradition dictates it to be white.
And at some point, on that day, you’ll be asked to answer a few questions. Only they’re all asking the same thing—if you’ll promise to take my hand, and walk with me always. And if you do, promise to take that walk with me, you’ll only need to give one answer to all those questions. It’s quite simple.
I do.