If You Dare

I got married in a hurricane. Ivan the Hurricane to be exact. We, KISA and I, planned for wind. We planned for rain. What we didn’t think of was mud and it was because of the mud that I ruined my gown and my pride.
It all started when I became a selfish bride. I didn’t want a single stranger involved in one of the biggest events of my life. I needed to know every person. So, I chose a neighbor, a reputable seamstress to make my wedding dress. For months we designed, planned and gossiped like girls. We grew close, sharing secrets about relationships. She saw me naked. I got tragic details about her troubled past. We could call each other friend. Nevertheless, she was shocked when I said I wanted to wear hiking boots under the gown. I showed her pictures of “the site” and finally got her to understand what having an “island wedding” meant. She was even more amazed when she learned I’m not a frilly girly girl. I didn’t ask for lace. I didn’t want sparkle. No glitter. No sequins. No long line of satin buttons. No train. No fuss. I didn’t even want white. It took some convincing but I got my way with champagne gold. I chose champagne gold to match my shiny new start to love and marriage. Custom made champagne to be exact. My seamstress, my friend, went along with it, tsking-tsking and shaking her head all the while.
I promised her the dress, as simple as it was, would be beautiful. I promised her I would share pictures after the honeymoon to prove it. I promised to visit her often. Then the rain brought the mud and I ruined the dress. I ruined the dress. How could I face the one person who lovingly, carefully, perfectly stitched the garment of my perfect day? How could I show her the pictures without confessing the dress?
I couldn’t. I didn’t. I brought the dress to two different cleaners who sadly admited it couldn’t be cleaned. Defeated, I went home and buried the champagne gold in the back of the closet. It hangs there, dejected and hasn’t been touched since. I never shared pictures. I never visited. I’d catch sight of her at the grocery store and quickly turn away, averting my friendship.
It’s been over two years and now my seamstress-once-friend has moved away. No forwarding address. I broke promises because of the mud…I broke promises because I didn’t dare.