Veiled

Whenever I opened my closet door, I saw the delicate layers of tulle and lace, the exquisite cream-colored gown, a symbol of all my dreams. Its very tangible, immediate presence felt like a promise: You have the gown. You’ll have the wedding soon, too.

Years ago, my aunt’s friend had given her the wedding gown she’d had custom sewn for her daughter’s wedding. My aunt had hoped to give it to her own daughter — six years my junior — but that cousin decided to wear a pure white gown. When I visited, my aunt looked me up and down, then clapped her hands in excitement. “You know, I think Shevy’s gown would be perfect for you! Why don’t you take it?”

We climbed the steps to the attic where I tried on the gown, fingering the lace as my aunt carefully zippered it. I’d already been dating for a number of years; it was hard to picture myself in a gown. But my aunt was right — it did fit perfectly. She saved it for me in her attic, and from time to time when I visited, I’d try it on.

When my aunt moved, I took the gown home and hung it in my closet. It was huge and bulky, what with the layers and petticoats and veil, but I loved having it there. Now all I needed was the chassan!