Something old, something new

I’m looking myself in the mirror for the millionth time, adjusting the veil, flattening the skirt, and trying to decide whether I should let my hair fall over the tattoo on the left shoulder or not. The little blue dolphin was a token of the time I had taken my grandma for her first dive, just like the kite on my ankle reminded me of when we went kite-surfing, and the shell we tattooed on the wrist after finishing the Camino de Santiago in Spain. Always together, we would both get tattoos after our adventures. But here I am, ready to embark on one of the most extraordinary adventures ever, and she is no longer with me, helping me overcome the paralyzing fear that takes over my body whenever I face the unknown. Thankfully, she left me something to keep me going, a treasure so powerful that it can push you through any circumstance. A feather. But not any feather, a long, soft red-and-blue macaw feather. My something old. And something borrowed, something blue, and something new.

You see, although grandma left it for me, I’m not the owner of this feather. For now, I am just in charge of caring for it and having it ready for the next bride in the family. This same feather has been adorning the bouquets of every bride in my family for almost a century since my great-great-grandmother. Her sisters, her daughters, her nieces, their daughters, their granddaughters, their great-granddaughters, and now me, her first great-great-granddaughter. This feather has attended fifty-three weddings. And whether or not we believe in superstitions, the fact is, all these fifty-three weddings were and are happy and long-lasting.

Our family tradition started at the beginning of the twentieth century when a tremendously brave young lady decided to go after her fiancé to ask him to marry her. Claude, the fiancé who would be my great-great-grandfather, worked for an engineering company hired to build a swing bridge in then-British Honduras, now Belize. Before the active construction process, he led the team responsible for analyzing the area and taking all measurements (not once, but twice) to ensure everything would be right. I’m sure if this happened today, he would be gone for a maximum of a week. But back then, he was expected to be away for almost a year. Tired of waiting and a bit curious to see the life in the Caribbean, Hilde was able to convince her parents to let her board a cruise with two sisters, and an aunt, to pay a visit to her beau. Little did they know that she already had her mind set to propose. She was fierce and knew precisely what she wanted, unafraid of the conservative society and the inevitable gossip.

Life aboard was exciting, brimming with activities, from overnight bridge sessions to fancy dinners and exquisite parties, and the girls soon found a new group of friends, including Mrs. Coleman, a wealthy widow who used to spend half the year at her family home in the Caribbean, where she grew up. Fascinated by the courage of my great-great-grandma, and because Claude was too busy to keep the girls company, she took the group of women to see white-sandy beaches, little villages, and all tropical colors and smells that would make any city girl inebriated back then (just as much as today, for sure). At one of the villages, Hilde was absolutely fascinated by the scarlet macaw an old woman had on the shoulder and could not resist talking to her. And that’s when she learned the macaw symbolized long-lasting happy relationships because the bird is faithful to one mate all through its almost 70-year-long life, and the local belief that carrying a macaw feather ensures longevity and happiness. True or not, family legend says that the lady with the macaw claimed to be, at the time, 103 years old, and she had a full bird of feathers. Minus one, that she gave to Hilde.

And that’s why if you could look closely into my colorful bouquet with sunflowers, strelitzias, and gerberas, you would see a long, soft, red-and-blue macaw feather, attached to a fine gold-chain, with fifty-four small and delicately engraved golden feathers. Each of these feathers tells a story of their own, and the new one, mine, is for my story.

Holding the bouquet with both hands, I look in the mirror for the last time, and I can feel all the other women who held this feather pushing me forward into my grand adventure. I might just get a new tattoo for this one too. This time, not with grandma, but my beau.