The first line was a name stitched in faded blue thread: Thomas Reed. Beneath it, in her mother\u2019s careful handwriting, were four more words: \u201cWalk beside our daughter.\u201d My anger left me so quickly that I felt unsteady. Megan\u2019s father had died when she was fifteen, long before we met, and she rarely spoke of him. I had never once seen his belongings. She leaned close and whispered that she could not bear to walk alone, so she had brought him. The suit was the one he had worn on his own wedding day, and her mother had kept it in a cedar chest for fourteen years.<\/p>\n
I understood then why her mother had looked so unsurprised, and why the garment bags had come and gone without a word. The wedding dress had been hanging in the bridal tent the entire time, waiting for the reception. Megan had planned to wear it later, for the dancing and the photographs I had imagined. But for the walk itself, she wanted her father\u2019s shoulders around her, however much too wide they were. I nodded, because I could not speak. Then I took her sleeve, still folded back, and pressed the cuff flat against her wrist, as gently as I could.<\/p>\n
The whispering stopped when her mother stood and said, in a clear voice, that the suit had walked her husband down his own aisle once, and it had earned its place. Nobody laughed again. We said our vows beneath a sky that held back its rain, and when I said \u201cI do,\u201d I swear I felt a little more weight in the room than there should have been. My brother wiped his eyes and pretended it was the wind. Afterward, Megan changed into the dress, and I finally saw it, and it was lovely, but I kept looking at the suit hanging beside it.<\/p>\n
Later, in the quiet between the toasts and the dancing, I told her I was sorry for how I had felt in those first few seconds. She said she should have told me, and that fear of being talked out of it had made her silent. We agreed that traditions are only the shapes love borrows until it finds its own. The suit hangs in our hallway closet now, the cuff still folded back. On our anniversary, Megan slides her hand inside the sleeve and smiles. I have never again asked her to explain something that was already speaking.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
The first line was a name stitched in faded blue thread: Thomas Reed. Beneath it, in her mother\u2019s careful handwriting, were four more words: \u201cWalk beside our… <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":6066,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[4],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-7229","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-stories"],"yoast_head":"\n