The Wedding Season

I find June cowering
in the corner,
her arms strewn with apple blossoms,
veil torn into shreds that littered
the ground around her,
one heel broken and the other shoe lost.

Her face buried in the bouquet
of roses and baby’s breath,
she shakes with each ring
of the church bell,
her hands wrapped in thorns
and braceleted in blood.

My touch startles her,
her eyes peering out of the petals,
their blue seeping
into her smeared mascara.
“April?”
she murmurs,
her hope dying within a glance of my face.

I saved a pocketful of last year’s leaves,
their brittle forms full of wishes,
and I pull one out to dry her tears.
“I only wanted her to stay,”
she says.
The flowers fall from her grip
and the wind blows them to pieces.

“She promised,”
says June, voice cracked.
“And when has April ever kept one of those?”
I ask her, and answer for her:
“Not even once. “

His face ringed in His eternal light,
the minister approaches.
We each take one of her arms
and hoist her to her feet,
coaxing her out of the remaining shoe.
With a kiss on our foreheads,
He bids us love and luck.

June and I stumble out of the church.
She wails when we step into the fresh air,
face crumpling.
I sigh. This will be my life
for a good while.
“You should just be grateful
that she left before it was too late.”
My hand near her face is dripping,
and I wince.
“We’ll talk about this later.”

I wonder where April is hiding.
After this mess,
I wouldn’t be surprised
if we missed her for a few turns.
No matter.
March and May can make up the difference.

Whimpers set my teeth on edge
while still wringing out pity.
“Oh, June.”
I stroke her hair.
“It gets better. You’ll see.”

The sun goes behind a cloud.
The trees disappear in shadows.
We fall into my car.
June slips into sleep,
and I drive us home
down a barren road.