THE PUBLIC SHELF
For your wedding morning
You were the kid who cried at every goodbye. Every sleepover, every summer camp, every time Grandma's car pulled out of the driveway. You'd stand at the window with your hand on the glass until she turned the corner. Mom used to say you loved too hard for a small person.
Today you get to stay.
That's what this is. That's what you're doing today. You're choosing someone and saying, I'm not going to the window anymore. I'm staying right here.
I've watched you love people your whole life, and I've watched it cost you. I know about the ones who didn't deserve it. I was there for the bad years. So I need you to know, from your big sister, who is very hard to impress: I've never seen you like this. You're not bracing. You're not waiting for it to end. You're just happy, in a way that's quiet and sure. He sees you. I can tell. I watched him watching you at the rehearsal, and he looked at you like you were the only lit window on the street.
Some practical things, because I know you. Eat something before the photos, real food. Drink water. Look up during the vows, not at your shoes. And when the music starts, don't look for me in the crowd. I'll be the one crying the loudest.
Your big sister
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