grieving with guinever

She walked the aisle pulling her brother,
or was he pulling her?
Hand in hand, they raced,
forgetting they were supposed to go slowly down the lacey runner.

A girl of three with long, long hair.
I cried.
Would Abby’s hair be so long now?
Two girls born just weeks apart.
But one’s alive and one is not.
I sobbed.

Oh look! White ribbons in her hair.
Dark, dark hair. Abby’s hair was golden.
I kept sobbing.
“Pull it together,” I thought.

Sweet, sweet flower girl.
Fitted bodice, beads on white satin.
Beautiful Anna.
Todd whispered, “”The ceremony hasn’t even started yet!”
I whispered back, “It’s Anna.”

I prayed. I tried to focus. The bride. . . .
Canon in D. Think of Kristen. The bride, the bride, the bride.
The strings played. The people stood.
The bride appeared.
The bridesmaids–three younger sisters–cried.

I slowed my breathing. I continued to pray.
I wanted to run. I wanted my Abby.
I wanted to hold Mary and touch her curls.
I wanted to hold Anna, to put my arms around anyone–any little girl.

But I stayed and didn’t run away.
Finally still, finally silent,
I clutched my tissues and fingered my handkerchief
as I watched Larry give his little girl away.
And I thought of Abby
never to be a flower girl
never to be given away
never a bride.