Saint Andrew's Church had gone through this affair many, many times before in her two centuries of doing God's work here in Plymouth parish. But tonight, her candlelight and stained glass would cast their ancient reverence on two young souls who happened upon each other in this place along the river of time. One of those young souls was my son, Shawn Michael. Now a young man, well-educated, well-gifted, well-mannered, well-prepared and in a few hours, well-married. Amy Elizabeth is her name. From a family I do not know. And she will marry a groom that I haven't known in years.
I ride now alone in the backseat of this Checker cab. Twirling in my fingers this deep red tuxedo rose and wishing that Shawn's mother were still here to help me through this night.