Her head hung low and her eyes fixed on the bouquet of pastel-colored flowers.
Her eyes shifted from the floral bunch to the sweeping chiffon train of her mother’s wedding dress.
Her poise and radiance resembled that of a roman mythological heroine as she floated across the aisle.
Halfway down the church hall’s part, her misty eyed grandfather passed his little girl to Craig,
Performing the prehistoric ritual that has warmed the hearts of humanity for ages and ages.
The girl wished she had told her mother about the golden earrings.
The rusting hoops that were buried at the bottom of Craig’s sock drawer.
She knew they weren’t her mother’s because she always wore silver jewelry,
Like the studs that shimmered through her veil that afternoon.
The woman who wore those earrings probably visited there often because she wasn’t in any hurry to get them back.
The girl wished she had mentioned the bruises and cuts that he left on her every time
She didn’t wash the dishes or failed to take her books off of his ratty futon.
He hated that she was part of this deal and would remind her no matter how many times she apologized.
The pots and buckles would scream and dance between the hours of seven and three in the morning
Because that was when her mother worked her shifts at the hospital.
At night she would ask God why He could not speak.
Speak and tell her mother the truths that she herself was far too scared to relay.
If God were all powerful, then why must I carry the burden of knowing this