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Every wedding, she returns. She is the only witness who leaves.
He gave her away. He is still working out what was given.
The pause between the ceremony and the feast. The air, held.
The table where every story meets.
He missed the vows. He has not missed the meaning.
No one knows how she got in. Everyone knows why she came.
He has been invited, but not by anyone here.
He is passing through. He hears everything. He tells no one.
He is watching. He is remembering the day his own father watched him.
She raised the man. She is measuring what is left of him.
He walked her down. He is walking somewhere else.
She has been crying since the dress. She will not cry now.
She has known him longest. She is not sure she knows him now.
He is the only one who knows what the groom looked like at nineteen.
She is beautiful in a way that costs nothing, and she knows it.
She was there when the bride chose him. She is here to see it through.
He is waiting for his chance. All night, he is waiting.
She has been the bride in her own head. Today is not her day. She knows.
He is holding the ring. He is not thinking about the ring.
She knows who belongs at the table, and who came to eat anyway.
He has seen this story end a thousand ways. He still means every vow.
He has rehearsed this moment a hundred times. None of them prepared him.
The eye of the storm. Everyone turns to her. She does not turn.
A woman adorned in Aṣò ẹbí. In the folds of her Gele, a calm, assured regality.
