When we got married, I wasn’t wearing a white dress. Your mom wasn’t sitting in front with tissues in her hand. My brother didn’t play his violin, and my mama didn’t sing.
When we got married, you were crying in the dark and I held you close. You thought you were dying and I said that I loved you. It took some time, but you got better.
When we got married, we said our vows through late night phone calls and too few flights across the country. It took some time, but we found a way to be together.
When we got married, I wore a hospital gown. You read me Where the Wild Things Are while I cried. Your mom started a prayer chain and the church ladies sent cards. My dad told the doctors you were my next of kin. The only music was my IV beeping. It’s taking time, but I’m learning to live with the body I’ve got.
These weren’t the moments when I knew you were the one. They were the moments when we became one. It took time, and distance, and two natural disasters. We inched forward and back. We didn’t always know what was happening, but when I wore a white dress and your mom sat in front with tissues in her hand: I couldn’t have done that if it wasn’t already true.