she unwraps cello jackets, revealing gems below: champagne, ivory, two-toned, pink.
i evn find a white one i love in a classic misty move. i rebel even against myself sometimes.
one last glance at the crammed rack, and i see a glimpse of an impossible color peeking out. "oh," i breathe. yes. oyster. this would suit you rather well, i think.
i bought my dress 7 months before he asked.
the answer was always yes.
i never considerd being a january bride--we all probably assumed i'd be a barefoot bohemian, and inside i definitely am.
he says i didn't even kiss him with you may now--lips barely brushed his, he insists. i wish i could smother him in a million kisses and start again tomorrow.
i'm terrified of dancing, but we danced anyway, and these hips have since swayed in endless labor and the rocking of babes to sleep. the dancing of a mother is just the fuller dance of newbride.
tears clouded vision with that first Mr&Mrs; now i wear Mrs unblushingly and well. it suits me, too.
my oyster gown hangs on his side of the closet. it's not even protected. i leave it as it is. that indescribable pearly color whispers to me when i hang up clothes, reminding the housewife of the bride she'll always be.
happy anniversary, beloved.
(this is a day early-we celebrate union tomorrow, but i'll be away from my computer for large parts these next few days, so linking with emily and others for imperfect prose)