You were small the first time you pictured this day.
The dress, or the suit. The light. The aisle. The song.
The face of everybody watching.
You have carried that picture almost your whole life,
and somebody handed it to you.
So take one now.
A Tuesday, ten years in, and they know what your face is doing before you say it.
The morning you are frightened, and you say so out loud, and they catch all of it.
Them at sixty, reaching for you across the kitchen for no reason at all.
Being known, completely, by somebody choosing it again every single day.
That is the picture worth preparing for.
The day will be beautiful.
The marriage is what you keep.