Walking to work every day I pass by the bridal shop on the way to and from my office. I stop and check when the dresses in the window change and I wonder if they’ve gone off to walk down the aisle or to the marked down section in the back of the store.
I took a picture one day with the intention of writing a bit of a bitchy blog post about it. As bitchy as I am when I talk about my wedding dress. Bitchy to say all these years later that I made my own wedding dress and had no one; no mother to care. So, that’s what this post was supposed to be.
But it’s not.
You see, a couple of days ago as I hurried up the block on my way to the parkade after work , I saw a lady stopped on the sidewalk looking in the window at the dresses. Something about the lady and how she was looking in the window slowed my march along the sidewalk and I stopped beside her.
We stood side by side quietly looking at wedding dresses. Me, fresh from work with the dress, details like fancy nails and lipstick, briefcase and designer purse, and the lady slightly stooped over in a faded looking beige sweater, short bowl-cut shaped grey hair with a few soft whiskers on her chin.
I said “they’re lovely, aren’t they?” and she said “yes, they certainly are”. For some reason I blurted out that I’d made my own dress and it wasn’t lovely like these and I told her I ended up throwing it out last year because I hated it so much.
The lady said “oh my dear, that’s sad”. She said “I still have my dress after 56 years and still love it. It’s turning a bit yellow now, but still beautiful”. With our faces bathed in the soft tulle, satin and lace reflection in the window I said “and I can see you 56 years ago as the beautiful bride you were.”
I continued on my way warmed by her smile reflected in the bridal shop window.
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