As One

Many waters cannot quench love; rivers cannot sweep it away.

—Song of Songs 8:7

Aaron and I were married on a hot August night on Michigan Avenue in Chicago, near the lake and Buckingham Fountain and the Art Institute. I walked down the aisle to a Beatles song, and we danced and ate crab cakes and chocolate cake. We watched the fireworks over Navy Pier blend in with the glitter of the city sky. It was both sweet and a little bit wild, like the best parties are.

I had thought that Aaron and I became a family the day we were married. What I have found, though, is that the web starts as just one fine filament on that day, and spins and spins around us day by day. And on some days, the strands spin around us double-time, spinning us like a top and binding us like rubber cement.

Family is not made by ceremonies or certificates, and not by parties and celebrations. Family gets made when you decide to hold hands and sit shoulder to shoulder when it seems like the sky is falling. Family gets made when the future obscures itself like a solar eclipse and in the intervening darkness, you decide that no matter what happens in the night, you’ll face it as one.