Today is my wedding.
I know the hymns before the choir begins.
Steam the dresses.
Pin the corsages straight.
Smooth the programs so the vows read clearly.
Everyone says the timing is perfect.
They call me a blessing.
A miracle of logistics.
I accept the language.
Not out of vanity —
but because I have done the work.
I court the ceremony properly.
RSVP on time.
Balance the registry and the budget.
Memorize the emergency exits.
Hold the room steady
when the chandeliers begin to tremble.
Someone presses the bouquet into my hands.
I’ll know when to step forward.
I stand near the altar
close enough to hear the music begin.
The pews fill.
Candles rise.
The guests settle into their programs.
Someone squeezes my shoulder.
Any moment now.
The whole room is waiting for me.
When the music swells
and the doors open
the entire chapel turns
to look at the bride.
But it isn’t me.
She glides forward in silk
that has never steadied a ceremony.
The vows are spoken.
The champagne is poured.
The photographs are taken.
Someone gently escorts me away
to a table in the back
with the weird uncles whom I adore dearly.
They whisper through their bourbon:
Kid, you were the one
holding this whole thing together.
They toast to the ease of it.
Later someone laughs and says,
We should take you on the honeymoon; just in case the sun forgets to rise,
or the itinerary loses its way.
I lift my glass.
Observe the cracks in the icing,
the logic of loyalty,
the quiet truth beneath the vows.
The bouquet is still in my hands.
But tonight
I do not wait for it to be thrown.
I set it down.
Walk out into the cold.
And start planning my own bachelorette.
