Its tradition. Every time I come home, I dig to the top of the closet, get the bright blue box down off the highest shelf and try on my mama's wedding gown circa 1984.
The fabric, a hand-stitched, Kate Middleton-esque lacy number, is beautifully embroidered with the tiniest beads along the sweetheart neckline... and just when I think there couldn't possibly be any more, I always seem to find a clump of confetti hidden amongst the veil, a palpable catalyst that sends my wild imagination in to overdrive, envisioning my blushing self in my own perfect dress bursting through wooden church doors with the love of my life beside me as we step out in to our forever for the first time. Oh, happy day.
As a child, the gown hung off of me like a giant, over-sized sheet and I would trip on the train as I walked down the aisle (Read: the hallway in the cabin)... but every year it seems to fit me more and more like a glove glass slipper... I feel like I am floating on clouds as I glide down the "aisle" and the train gracefully sweeps across the floor behind me. It's with each snuggier {I am the self-proclaimed queen of lexicons.} fitting, I swear I hear a quiet whisper amidst the swishing and swooshing of the crinoline, "Your turn will come one day, too. Be patient. That perfect day full of love and family and friends that you have been dreaming about since you were ten will turn in to a reality. Every little detail. He's out there and he will be well worth the wait. Have faith. That serendipitous meet-cute when your two hearts intwine at first sight... it's faithfully written in the stars. Keep loving + carry on wishing." Oh, happy dream.
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