The Wedding by Nicholas Sparks Page B

August slows the pace of life in New Bern . People drive more cautiously, traffic lights seem to stay red longer than usual, and those who walk use just enough energy to move their bodies forward, as if engaging in slow-motion shuffle contests.   Jane and Anna were already gone for the day. After coming in from the deck last night, Jane sat at the kitchen table and started making notes of all that she had to do. Though she was under no illusions that she would be able to accomplish everything, her notes covered three pages, with goals outlined for each day of the following week.
    Jane had always been good with projects. Whether it was running a fund-raiser for the Boy Scouts or organizing a church raffle, my wife was usually the person tapped to volunteer. While it left her feeling overwhelmed at times—she did, after all, have three children engaged in other activities—she never refused.   Recalling how frazzled she often became, I made a mental note to keep any requests of her time to a minimum in the week to come.   The courtyard behind Creekside was landscaped with square hedges and clustered azaleas. After passing through the building—I was certain Noah wasn’t in his room—I followed the curving gravel pathway toward the pond. Spotting Noah, I shook my head when I noticed that he was wearing his favorite blue cardigan despite the heat. Only Noah could be chilled on a day like today.   He’d just finished feeding the swan, and it still swam in small circles before him. As I approached, I heard him speaking to it, though I couldn’t make out his words. The swan seemed to trust him completely. Noah once told me that the swan sometimes rested at his feet, though I had never actually seen this.   “Hello, Noah,” I said.
    It was an effort for him to turn his head. “Hello, Wilson.” He raised a hand.
    “Thanks for dropping by.”
    “You doing okay?”
    “Could be better,” he replied. “Could be worse, though, too.” Though I came here often, Creekside sometimes depressed me, for it seemed to be full of people who’d been left behind in life. The doctors and nurses told us that Noah was lucky since he had frequent visitors, but too many of the others spent their days watching television to escape the loneliness of their final years. Noah still spent his evenings reciting poetry to the people who live here. He’s fond of the poems of Walt Whitman, and Leaves of Grass was on the bench beside him. He seldom went anywhere without it, and though both Jane and I have read it in the past, I must admit that I don’t understand why he finds the poems so meaningful.
    Studying him, I was struck anew by how sad it was to watch a man like Noah grow old. For most of my life, I’d never thought of him in those terms, but nowadays, when I heard his breath, it reminded me of air moving through an old accordion.   He didn’t move his left hand, a consequence of the stroke he’d suffered in the spring. Noah was winding down, and while I’d long known this was coming, it seemed that he finally realized it as well.
    He was watching the swan, and following his gaze, I recognized the bird by the black spot on its chest. It reminded me of a mole or birthmark, or coal in the snow, nature’s attempt to mute perfection. At certain times of the year, a dozen swans could be found on the water, but this was the only one that never left.   I’ve seen it floating on the pond even when the temperature plunged in the winter and the other swans had long migrated farther south. Noah once told me why the swan never left, and his explanation was one of the reasons the doctors thought him delusional.
    Taking a seat beside him, I recounted what had happened the night before with Anna and Jane. When I finished, Noah glanced at me with a slight smirk.   “Jane was surprised?” he asked.
    “Who wouldn’t be?”
    “And she wants things a certain way?”
    “Yes,” I said. I told him about the plans she had outlined at the