SOMETIMES YOU TALK to a bride a few years or even a few weeks after her wedding, and she says, “I remember nothing. It’s all a blur. There was a church, a big reception, and the next thing I knew we were on a beach in Barbados.”

Well, it sure wasn’t that way for me.

I remember everything, every candle, every flower, every wineglass, every song, every toast, every person who came to the farm. It was as if my brain and my eyes had come together to form the perfect human video camera.

I walked slowly and alone down the aisle. Friends and family waved. Some shouted out. Photographs later revealed that I looked ecstatic, bordering on goofy—a big grin stretched across my face, my eyes as big as apples.

About fifty of my students—past and present—were stationed toward the rear. It was funny what I thought about as I watched them: Janie Creed, whose mother objected so strenuously when I assigned Portnoy’s Complaint twenty-five years earlier to my senior class. Keshan Saunders, a senior, who never read one of the assignments yet in creative writing submitted an incredibly beautiful sonnet about the death of his grandfather.

Betsey Greenwood, the school principal who’d hired me right out of college, the woman who had said, “You’re a fresh one, but you’ll calm down. They always do.” Now she stood for the second time at one of my weddings, with the aid of a cane.

As I continued my walk I saw folks I’d seen only hours before at the breakfast. Benny blew me a kiss. Adele Gould nodded knowingly. Right next to Adele, the Kuehn twins—Hazel and Suzanne—in their early forties now and still dressing alike. Steve Miller, the pharmacist. Billy, my buddy from the hardware store. And I didn’t know who could be waiting tables at the Red Lion Inn—because it looked like every waitress and busboy had taken time off to be here.

Seth was in charge of the music. My only request was that it not be predictable. No Bach cantatas, no “Ave Maria.” Then I worried that it might be nothing but Dr. Dre and Eminem. It was neither. Seth had hired a mandolin player and a harpsichordist to play hit songs from the seventies, my high school and college years.

So my slow and easy entrance was accompanied by an exquisitely delicate version of “Seasons in the Sun” and a soft, relaxed rendition of Aretha’s “Until You Come Back to Me.”

I had almost made it to the makeshift altar. Reverend Browning was standing a few yards ahead, beaming. On one side of him was my family; on the other side were my boys: Tom, Jacob, Marty. If I was going to cry, it was going to be now. But they all looked so pleased, so calm, that I remained absolutely buoyant.

That is, until I caught sight of Gus. That boy was impeccably groomed, impeccably dressed too. Where had he gotten that beautiful suit?

Then I remembered. The soft gray cashmere suit had belonged to Peter. It was his favorite. Now Gus was wearing it. And I couldn’t help it when my eyes filled with tears. Gus looked as handsome as his grandfather, and he was every bit as tall.

By now I was at the front of the assembly of family and friends. I took a deep, quick breath. Then I turned around and spoke.

“Well, so far, so good.”