The bride was alerted by the staff that it was nearly time to shut down the wedding venue but there were still rowdy guests out on the dance floor.
She came to investigate and looked around expecting, I suspect, to find her similarly-aged (perhaps intoxicated) friends. Instead she looked at us—five moms and two young women we had recruited into our circle-- and said, “Oh! It’s you guys!” We all waved to her and kept dancing our hearts out to “Build Me Up Buttercup.”
We continued dancing when the next song came on, knowing our time was limited and bathed in that particular happy light only a wedding can produce.
I looked around at the circle of women, mostly in their fifties, the assortment of flowing dresses adorning various body types. Life had been very different for all of us. The mother of the bride, swayed in time with the mother of the groom --one from Washington, the other from Scotland. I danced next to a woman I had known for years and one I had met just hours before.
There were no partners. We simply danced, a vibrant moving flower whose colorful petals waved and moved in the wind. The two younger women danced with us and we enfolded them in the circle. We mothers felt the strength and glory that comes from producing life. We had all been through joy and heartache. Life had given us some muddy gravel roads to traverse and also some gorgeous perfect roses along the way.
The younger women in the group had all that in front of them, the exquisitely beautiful and the painfully ugly, and at that moment, they all felt every bit of power and support in that group that they too, would make it through the journey and be just fine.
I love being where I am in this life. Behind me are the insecurities of youth. No longer do I hide as a wallflower, waiting to be asked to dance. I dance when I want to, regardless of having a partner. I love being with women my own age. We understand each other. We get it. We support one another. Gone are the small, petty differences we thought were so important. Age brings wisdom, perspective, and a whole lot of forgiveness.
The last song played and we finally said good night to one another, lingering just a little before scattering out to our homes, knowing full well that we would never be together again.
It was a moment in time that was both finite and infinite.
The song ended. Our music did not.