When it's over, I want to say: all my life I was a bride married

Host:
The forest clearing was quiet in that holy way only twilight can make — where everything pauses just long enough to feel eternal. The air shimmered with the scent of pine and rain, and the sunlight spilled through the trees in long, trembling ribbons, turning dust motes into tiny floating stars.

By the edge of the clearing stood a small wooden cabin, smoke rising gently from its chimney. A river murmured nearby, whispering secrets only water knows — secrets about time, loss, and the soft, forgiving rhythm of return.

On a bench by the water sat Jack, his jacket draped beside him, eyes fixed on the horizon. His hands were calloused, his expression calm in that hard-earned way — the calm of someone who has survived himself. Jeeny sat beside him, barefoot, a notebook open in her lap. Her hair was tangled by the wind, and her voice — when she finally spoke — sounded like something born from reverence.

In the open notebook, she had written one line in careful, trembling script:

“When it’s over, I want to say: all my life I was a bride married to amazement. I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.”
— Mary Oliver

Jeeny: (quietly) You ever think about the end, Jack? About what you’d want to say when it’s all done?

Jack: (half-smiles) I try not to. Death’s the one appointment you don’t need to confirm.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) Maybe. But Mary Oliver didn’t talk about dying. She talked about living — about being so awake that even death couldn’t undo it.

Jack: (leaning forward) “Married to amazement,” huh? That’s a hell of a vow.

Jeeny: (softly) The only one that matters, maybe. To stay amazed, even when life hurts. Especially then.

Jack: (quietly) You make it sound like devotion.

Jeeny: (turning toward him) Isn’t it? To love the world even when it breaks you — that’s faith in its purest form.

Host: The river shimmered, catching the last gold of daylight. A bird called once from the trees, then fell silent, leaving the sound of wind and water like the breath of something ancient and kind.

Jack: (after a pause) You think amazement’s still possible after everything? The losses, the noise, the days that just blur together?

Jeeny: (gently) Of course it is. It’s not about ignoring the pain — it’s about refusing to let it be the only story.

Jack: (smirks) You sound like a poet.

Jeeny: (smiling) I just read them until they start living in me.

Jack: (quietly) I used to think amazement was a kid’s game. Something you outgrow once you’ve seen how the world actually works.

Jeeny: (softly) Maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe amazement is the reward for surviving cynicism.

Jack: (nodding slowly) And what’s the penalty for losing it?

Jeeny: (gently) You start mistaking existence for living.

Host: The light dimmed, soft and golden, brushing the tops of the trees. The river grew darker, carrying leaves like small drifting memories. Jeeny closed her notebook, resting it on her knees.

Jack: (quietly) I don’t think I’ve ever been “married” to amazement. Maybe engaged once or twice — but it never lasted.

Jeeny: (smiling) Maybe you kept looking for the kind of amazement that shouts. Mary Oliver’s talking about the kind that whispers.

Jack: (softly) The kind that waits?

Jeeny: (nods) The kind that’s always been there — in the way light moves, or how someone says your name. You just stop noticing when you start measuring.

Jack: (sighs) Yeah. I spent years chasing “more.” I thought meaning was out there somewhere — bigger job, bigger place, bigger purpose. But maybe amazement isn’t about size. Maybe it’s about attention.

Jeeny: (quietly) Exactly. Wonder’s not about what you find — it’s about what you notice.

Host: The evening air thickened, rich with the smell of damp earth. The river glowed faintly under the first silver light of the rising moon. They sat in silence, the kind of silence that heals instead of haunts.

Jack: (after a long pause) You know what I think she meant — “the bride and the bridegroom”? It’s balance. The parts of us that give and the parts that receive. To be married to amazement means to belong to life, not to own it.

Jeeny: (softly) That’s beautiful, Jack.

Jack: (smiles faintly) Don’t sound so surprised.

Jeeny: (grinning) I’m not. Just amazed.

Jack: (laughs quietly) There it is again — amazement. You make it sound so easy to find.

Jeeny: (gently) It’s not easy. It’s just waiting for you to stop rushing past it.

Jack: (quietly) You really live like that? Every day?

Jeeny: (smiling) Not every day. But some days. The good ones. And the bad ones, if I remember to look up.

Host: The wind rustled through the trees, sending leaves cascading into the river. The moonlight caught the water, turning it into a ribbon of moving silver. Jeeny leaned back, her eyes closed, her expression peaceful.

Jack: (softly) You ever think about your own ending?

Jeeny: (after a pause) Sometimes.

Jack: (quietly) And what would you say, when it’s over?

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) I’d say, I didn’t waste it. I didn’t look away.

Jack: (after a moment) I’d like that too. To look back and know I didn’t just pass through — that I held it.

Jeeny: (softly) You still can. That’s what amazement is — permission to keep falling in love with the world, even when it forgets your name.

Jack: (smiles faintly) You make mortality sound romantic.

Jeeny: (gently) Maybe it is. Maybe death’s just the punctuation at the end of a beautiful sentence.

Host: The river glistened, the sound of water folding over itself soft and eternal. The forest had gone quiet, except for the low hum of the night — a sound that felt older than time.

Jack: (after a long silence) You know, I used to think happiness was something you found and held onto. But now I think it’s just moments — flashes of light, gone before you even know they’ve arrived.

Jeeny: (softly) That’s what makes them holy.

Jack: (quietly) Maybe that’s what Mary Oliver was trying to say. That being “married to amazement” means accepting that everything is temporary — and loving it anyway.

Jeeny: (smiles) To take the world into your arms, even knowing it’ll leave. That’s courage.

Jack: (softly) Or faith.

Jeeny: (gently) Or love.

Host: The moon rose fully now, washing the clearing in silver. The world felt both infinite and intimate — a breathing poem between silence and motion.

Jack turned to Jeeny, his expression soft but alive, the kind of alive that feels like prayer.

Host (closing):
The night deepened, and the two of them sat quietly by the water, the air full of what they didn’t need to say.

Above them, the sky stretched wide and forgiving. Below, the river carried everything forward — leaves, light, and all the fleeting things people never stop trying to hold.

“When it’s over, I want to say: all my life I was a bride married to amazement. I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.”

And in that moment, they understood what Mary Oliver meant —
that amazement isn’t a feeling; it’s a way of living.
To love the world so deeply that even goodbye feels like gratitude.

The river murmured,
the trees whispered,
and somewhere between breath and silence,
Jack and Jeeny felt it —
that quiet, impossible truth:

Life doesn’t ask you to last forever.
It only asks you
to be astonished while you’re here.