#shuttershock

You pull up the wedding dress, like a princess might in an old film, 

reaching into the gas station fridge to pull out an energy drink

while I try to work the gas station coffee machine.

I never understood why you kept it.

It isn't you, after all, and I would think that

your mother would want you to be happy,

be yourself, not the "woman" she moulded you to be.

(Also, it takes too much room in your suitcase,

and we were just walking to the registry office.)

Perhaps it's a final one-up on her. Perhaps it isn't. 

I'm not one to judge.

You point out that today 

my hair is like Neptune or the Milky Way,

and I tell you that I just messed around

with the bleach and blue dye and hoped for the best

which is kind of what you did, too, metaphorically.

You're still wearing your lenses, dark things,

shutters over those stained-glass windows

like that day one year ago.

I give you your flannel shirt back, drape it over your shoulders.

I forgot that I ever borrowed it.

Tonight we take the car down to the field,

the one where I caught a meteor shower on film once.

I point out Cassiopeia, Draco, Ursa Minor;

Polaris, at the end of it.

You listen, as you always do, to the stories

and I'm glad that

I've left the camera in the driver's seat,

for this moment is of the constellations and it's ours. 

You still have the dress in your workshop.

There's a grass-stain on it, and it's very old now

and I'm not quite sure if you'll use it for anything.

But I suppose you take solace in nostalgia,

in Milky-Way hair and gas station coffee.

I've been meaning to ask you if we can try again,

put some suits on and get married 

for love this time;

but that is for when the storm tides over,

when you're ready.