A Church, a Lady, and a Song

The aisle seemed to stretch a hundred times farther at this moment.

Immediately, she could feel every pair of eyes in the chapel on her. They were watching. All of them were. Her eyes, on the other hand, focused only on the altar, on him. On his mop of dark hair. She felt a smile tug at her lips hesitantly.

She took her first step slowly, uneasily. There was a dull pounding in her ears, like a muted bass line. Like the rhythm of her favorite song, but instead of calm, she felt anxious.

She realized it was actually her pulse thumping over the chapel’s noise.

They used to joke about this. She was always the jittery one between the two of them. He’d say that she’d run away while she makes her way towards him and she’d gasp and say how great that idea was. Then they would laugh but she’d know better. She knew he actually feared that. She knew she wasn’t the only jittery one between them.

She was just the one who couldn’t hide it.

And now here she was, actually considering running. She clamped her lips to suppress her laughter.

She closed her eyes and kept walking. This was no time to be shrinking into herself. This was her day. 

This was her day. 

She opened her eyes and gripped the flowers in her hands tighter to keep her hands from shaking.

A small part of her mind crossed her arms smugly. She could feel their slack-jawed awe like the fabric of the dress she wore. He always said she looked perfect no matter what she wore so she opted for something else. She chose a dress that everyone would remember. (And remember they did, about that raven-haired angel in the white dress).

She was pretty before but now she’s breath-taking and the stares partially confirmed it.

A few paces from the altar and she paused slightly. He was right there. So close and yet so far. He could step forward, reach out and take her into his arms like how she always does, but he doesn’t. He wouldn’t—she knew he wouldn’t—and the thought jarred her to the core.

She didn’t know why, but she felt her legs giving out while still standing. Her breath caught then came in slow pants. She gulped and realized how dry her throat was. Realized how bright the chapel was. Realized how foolish and stupid and useless this ceremony was.

Realized he would never reach out and grab her again.

Her eyes fell on the bundle in her hands: five red roses. Why? Why get five red roses? What does that stand for?

“First is for the happiness”, his baritone caressed her ears, “you never tire to give.”

She felt herself shudder, then shaking, move forward. Six paces away from the altar.

“Second is for the heartache, this one’s full of apologies.”

She couldn’t feel her legs, but she was moving. Four paces away.

“Third is for the warmth, the kind only you can give.”

It was his voice. He was singing that trashy, corny, song he sang to her. She loved it so much. Two paces away.

“Fourth is for the home, the one you made for us.”

She paused, she could see him now. See the ornate box he was lying in. See his closed eyes and his mop of dark hair that has lost all life like its owner. See his ashen face and grayed lips. See how peaceful he looks and how numbing it was to stare at his young face.

See that he’s getting buried in the suit he was supposed to wear to their wedding.

It felt like she was floating; stuck in a dream that was real but refused to be accepted and so could not become. She placed the roses around his head, each one with a verse.

The last she placed in his hands between the customary rosary and a hundred-dollar-bill. And the final verse:

“Fifth is for this promise: I swear I’ll never leave.”

It was bright outside the chapel but everyone swore they saw rain.

-R