Going up highway 2, before
the startup towns at the base
of the mountains, sits a white
"church."  Maybe 10 by 8 feet
it contains two tiny pews on each
side of a tinier aisle.  There is a door,
narrower than any residential entry,
and a window on each side.  I had
neither stopped nor rested as a sign
suggests, but had vigilantly considered
the possibility each time I braved
the two lane bumper to bumper road, 
driving in quickening dusk, slanting
rain, driving over the icy mountains
on the weekend to you.

I've heard there have been weddings
I imagine two couples, one to
marry, one to sign and witness,
and an online-ordained minister
from the Universal Life Church.
I imagine how God might have
attended; after all, it is a church.

I imagine, now, as I finally sit,
slightly hunched in the pew
on the side of highway 2,
that we might have come here
every year on our anniversary
to stand at the front, white
noise from the road in
attendance, as we reviewed
another successful year together.

I imagine how, instead of driving
further east into a state
where blood tests and a county
employee joined us together;
where no witness was required;
where we hudled in jeans
and sweaters; nervous and smelling
of the many cigarettes you smoked
through the previous night;
that we had turned west,
that I had worn a dress
and you a suit, that we
had married here.

(Published in  Clover, a Literary Rag Volume 14 Winter 2017)