The sun illuminates pristine snow
on the Spanish Peaks the morning
of my wedding. Outside Soldier’s
Chapel my mind whirls.
I will be a confident bride,
I will be a confident bride.
Stuart Weber’s classical guitar begins
the processional, Jesu, Joy of Man’s
Desiring, my cue. With one last look
at the Spanish Peaks, I enter the chapel
and start down the aisle, a bouquet of
daisies pressed against my sternum.
One one thousand take a step.
Two one thousand take a step.
Stand tall. Smile.
All eyes on the bride. The
wedding party waits at the altar.
What am I doing? Stop. Go back. The
mountains are calling my name.
Between the maid of honor and the
groom, my world tilts. Movement, a
fly on the floor, captures me. Little legs
kick at the air flailing circumstance.
It needs to be righted. It needs me. It’s dying.
What am I doing?
The preacher marries us. The groom
kisses me, and the congregation
cheers. We are presented:
Mr. and Mrs. I Promise
I Won’t Hit You Again.
When the receiving line ends, I rush
back to the altar to right the fly.
But I’m too late, it’s already dead.