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Our marriage cry

By: Daniel

Our wedding day is Tamara encapsulated.

We wanted a pop-up wedding, just us, a celebrant and a couple of witnesses. It's New Years Eve 2016, Red Lodge Montana. The snow is falling as our democracy is under attack. What better way to end a horrible political year than to get married? We’d show that lying racist conman.

We invite Dave, Linda, Kris and Michael over for drinks... there would be champagne and more. In they walk from skiing surprised to be witnesses to our wedding. We dressed in fine second hand clothes from an LA thrift store… it was an old fashion wedding after all.

We said our vows, taking each other: my friend and love, beside me and apart from me, in laughter and in tears, in conflict and tranquility, asking that you be no other than yourself, loving what I know of you, trusting what I do not yet know, in all the ways that life may find us.

We were so, so happily married.

And then of course we needed to celebrate, in the diviest bar in town. Many tequila shots in Tamara takes on the locals with the rallying cry of “fuck trumpet”, an endearing Scottish reference to something you can look up. Our little marriage night protes

t of all things Trumpian.

Loving, irreverent, funny, fun, a friend to all, most especially animals and nature. That’s my Tamara, the love of my life, a love that will only grow in spirit now that she has been wrenched from our world.

Fuck death. Long live Tamara’s loving memory.

(PS. This is the sign we put up on our Montana yard to counter all the Trump flags )

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