I’ll dress you in your gown again. A bridal gown. Pure white.
Not like the first dress. Self-worn. Disheveled. Rushed to the altar. Love in haste.
Why not in haste? When your parents, on that village road, still gaze daily at passing ferries. Fearing their child might be left behind. No ferry to take her.
Whenever a young man from the village visits, there’s a faint smile—left ajar. But not for you.
Twenty candles. All extinguished. Only a few more to blow.
It had to be in haste. Friends your age—girls, boys—gather to chat endlessly about childhood things. But no one ever speaks of happiness. It drifts.
You had to marry. So that the ferryman’s eyes no longer glanced into the gazes of two frost-bitten heads. Detached. No more crossings.
So that relatives wouldn’t sigh each time they visited, seeing you still alone.
You had to marry. To keep up with the times. At gatherings, people chatter about their charming, witty children. Friends hold onto this shared topic. Casual. No awkwardness.
And yet.
Marriage wasn’t what it seemed.
The man you love, the one to share half a lifetime with, carried the faint scent of alcohol throughout your years together. Love’s season left bruises—purple and swollen—across your body.
Marriage wasn’t what it seemed.
The man your child calls ‘father,’ whose title must eventually be uttered, carried the same scent of alcohol from your child’s first breath till now. The bruises, purple and fresh, still linger. Never fading.
You asked me why, my dear?
Bad luck? No. If it were, we wouldn’t have met. A fluttering heart at the gentle care I gave. It felt like a dream.
There were secret dates. Stolen cups of coffee. A flickering streetlight guiding your eyes to the wedding scene. The bride’s smile, radiant in a white dress. You dreamed of wearing it again, didn’t you?
I’ll go to your parents. Bring you on a new journey. Different. Without emptiness or pain. Your child will call me father, stepfather—whatever name, there will be love in me. An extraordinary love.
I’ll dress you in your gown again. A bridal gown. Even if the world calls you sinful. Your cheeks blush at my kiss. Your smile chases away the mocking light of that streetlamp, fulfilling your dream.
You smile after trying on the gown. Leave it behind. Just wearing it for fun, you say. Not now. I hear your heartbeat flutter nervously on the phone line.
I’ll dress you in your gown again. After wiping away the blood.
Some car—deliberate—struck you, tossing you mid-air, spilling your divorce papers unsigned.
Your husband smiled.
You never got to wear your bridal gown again."
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