An Out by: Gina Acampora, Silver Gelatin Print, 2019
A Rainbow Bride
Everyone around me has dived into insanity and all the meanwhile I’ve spent my morning hiding in the wardrobe. Originally, I thought that maybe someone had overlooked it but then I saw it with my own two eyes—my wedding dress is missing. I get married in two hours and my wedding dress is missing.
I should be having a breakdown right now, right? Right?! I should at least be on the verge of one. Why aren’t I? That would be sensible of me. Yes, it would. But why aren’t I making sense? Why aren’t I disintegrating? It would be okay if I did. It would. It’s okay to be in shambles right now and yet I’m not. I’m nowhere near the point of breaking down. I know I should be. I’m just empty. I shouldn’t be empty. Today was supposed to be the happiest day. I was going to come into it as a giddy soon-to-be bride and then come out of it all lively and married with all the potential in the world. Now, none of that is going to happen. Honestly, I don’t think I even wanted it to.
I always wanted to get married. When I was young, I made a journal planning my dream wedding and now it’s a reality. Still, something isn’t right. I don’t understand. I went through the steps: I met a guy that I like, we went on great dates, a relationship blossomed, we got to know one another in every way possible, both parents approved, we planned out our lives together and we did it all while loving one another. Formulas are supposed to work. It’s why everyone goes through the steps. I did everything right yet something’s still off.
At that moment I hear a quiet tapping on the door and look up to see Ezra walking in. I know it’s Ezra by the old torn up shoes that still have my shitty drawings on the side. They make their way to me urgently and sit down back-to-back against my bare soles.
“We have your dress,” she exhales, “although it might not look the same as you remember it. There’s been some… alterations.” From then on begins the story of my wedding dress’s demise. Apparently, some of the younger kids thought the dress was a bit dull and made a plan to “liven it up.” It turns out they’re not enthusiasts about the white wedding tradition, so they got a hold of some brushes and painted the bottom in a vivid rainbow order.
As pretty as that may sound, a heavy sigh is released. I loved that dress. It was only when I wore it that I genuinely saw a bride staring back at me. All the other times I thought I was just pretending. Maybe it’s a good idea the kids ruined it. I wouldn’t allow matrimony to ruin it. Alone, I loved it, but maybe I wouldn’t always. Maybe when I got to the church I wouldn’t. Maybe when I walked down the aisle with the heat of everyone’s stares burning into my body I wouldn’t. Maybe when I took my soon-to-be husband’s hand I wouldn’t. I was dreading that part the most. I absolutely despised holding his hand. It was always too sweaty and no matter how much I protested he never quite learned to let it go.
“Is there where you’ve been all morning? Camping in the closet?” She snorts and shakes her head, “You should’ve hidden in the basement. There’s still some pizza there. All you’re getting here is the violet perfume your mother savagely sprayed on the bridesmaid dresses this morning.”
I don’t say anything. I never have to with Ezra. So with shut eyes and a million withheld sobs, I lean my head against Ezra’s shoulder. She holds out a hand and intertwines it with mine. It’s strangely moist and yet I don’t mind. I don’t mind it at all.