Springtime Aisle Walking

When you see her, that bouquet matching her lips,

Matching her eyes,

Matching the pale pink of her shoes,

You wonder if she was born with petals in her hands.

She is as much a sight of Spring as that bouquet is, blush and bright and warm. You see the wind catch her veil and lift it, then you see her catch the groom’s heart, and lift it higher.

He’s crying the same way it was raining last night. Soft at first, then his heart opening like the sky.

The only one grinning harder, crying harder, is Grandpa Jack, one hand on his handkerchief, one hand on the seat in front of him. Anyone can see how much the bride in the aisle looks like Grandma did. 

The curls. The poise. The wild, sneaky grin.

She knew they’d both cry. She’d already clad her heart for it.

But you watch her, one arm in her mother’s, the other in her father’s, and you see the moment she sees her son, standing beside her groom.

Tim’s face is wet, two little hands pressed together before his mouth. He does a little jump, the same one he does when he’s excited.

You see the bride lose it.

You lose it too.