We go and pick out your bridal gown.
We stand witness to a new form of white.
As soft as spring, as strong as spider’s web, perhaps with buttons? Maybe with lace or chiffon? Who knows what the details will be.
Who knows if I will cry when I see you, in a veil trying things on with the wrong pair of shoes and a purple bra. Who knows if we will find what you are looking for. If you will feel pretty. If you will feel right. If you will feel like you look like you but elevated. A cake topper in your own life for one day. A bride in a line of brides. The first in our family.
I remember the day you were born, so small. Such dark hair. Smelling like baby shampoo and a deeper scent, un-nameable to me then (knowing now it was heaven). I remember how your pillow always smelled like syrup. How your skin goes golden every summer and your hair, tighter ringlets than mine in the sun, would fly out behind you when you would skip.
And I call out; on that amber lit field, as Kyle practices soccer, and our tiny mother rocking back and forth; the keys in her hands making the sound of a homespun wind chime:
“Look, Mommy! Mackenzie is a fairy!”
And it was true then, and true now. That an untouchable brightness makes you glow from the inside outwards.
And that the dress, this very important and sacred dress, will never touch the radiance that you naturally have.
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