where the land meets the sea

This one was different.

Not loud. Not performed.

This was us. 

Andrew and I. Together. 

We married where the island breathes
on a ragged edge of San Juan rock,
madronas peeling in soft curls beside us,
the sea holding its steady pulse.

No aisle.
No witness but wind and tide.
Just us - bare, certain, unperformed.

Champagne sweating against stone.
A small cake, shared between laughter and quiet.
Sea spray in our hair, rings warm from our palms.

There was no audience to applaud it,
and somehow that made it truer.
A promise whispered into salt air,
carried out across gray water
like something ancient returning home.

The world kept moving, seagulls in the distance,
kelp shifting like breath beneath the surface
but everything in us stilled.

Two people choosing each other
without spectacle, without noise,
the way tides choose shorelines
again and again.

No reception.
No chorus, no glittering room.
Only the soft ache of knowing
love this quiet can hold a whole life.

And when we walked back up the path,
sand on our shoes,
hands full of flowers and crumbs,
the island felt like it exhaled with us
as if it knew we had spoken forever
where the land meets the sea,
and meant it.