Wedding Day Tears

A young lady looked in the mirror. No matter how she tried, she couldn't get rid of the glowing smile on her face. It was her wedding day, the day she would marry the young gentleman she had loved since childhood.

It was a blisteringly hot summer morning. The ladies sat in their most ornate frocks, slowly fanning the moist air onto their brightly decorated cheeks. The men sat nearby in their best suits, waiting in the sun for the blessed event.

But none was as handsome as the young man who was awaiting his bride's hand. The sun reflected off the beads of sweat running down his forehead because of both the heat and his own nervousness. He looked over at the ladies in their dresses, then to the back porch of the house where the back door was opened to the old southern mansion's winding grand staircase. Just at the top of the stairs was the rest of his life.

The wedding march started. The bride looked down those many steps, the same steps she had descended and ascended all of her life. She had learned to walk on them, how to cry on them. That day, she was learning how to love on them.

The train of her great-grandmother's wedding dress stretched endlessly behind her. She took one step down and felt as though her heart would stop. Then she took another and saw her father standing at the bottom waiting for her. She smiled and tried to hide the tears like a proper southern young lady. But her attemps were all in vain.

She looked strainght ahead and listened to the march being played. All the guests were waiting for her. Her lover was waiting for her. And she never felt more complete. She took another step. Her shoe caught the train of her gown, and the world seemed to fall down around her.

Some still say she screamed when she fell. Others say that she breathed nary a sigh. All that is remebered is that when the priest, her father, and the man just seconds away from being her widow came to her aid, they knew it was over. Her fiancee held her hands as his face twisted in agony. Then he looked down into her lifeless and silent face. And she was crying. Tears still flowed down her powder white cheeks and fell to the wooden floor, only to dry up seconds later.

There is a monument in an old country cemetery of the young lady. She stands in her wedding dress as beautiful as the day she died. But on those hot summer days when the relentless heat allows no rain and even the towering oaks provide little shelter against the sweltering sun, she cries. Tears flow down the marble white cheeks of her face and fall onto the wind torn dirt, only to disappear seconds later.