"Here," he said as he held out his worn, calloused hands, indicating I should relinquish my grip on the bouquet. How does one hold these anyways? I thought, irritably. Not too close to the dress, but don't brandish it like a weapon.
I handed him my collection of green, white, and pink ribbons, odds and ends of a collection of pre-nuptial gifts, perfectly put-together by my mother. The little paper plate they were pinned to looked so small in his grasp. The way I have always felt. He towered over me when I was little, bundled me up in bear-hugs home from deployments and fierce embraces when I came to him with tear-streaked cheeks.
And now he looked at me with such questioning eyes- as if our roles had somehow reversed and he looked to me to tell him when the shots would be called. Did he feel like this when I turned to him growing up? Unsure but cocky, nervous but deliberate.
Once my shoe strap was fixed, leaning slightly against his frame, I adjusted the bouquet again. Our cue came and we glided down the grass as he mumbled in my ear how to walk in time with him. Things I should remember for tomorrow. But all I had eyes for was Mr. E. I was here and now, caught in that peculiar moment of present and future when your imagination gives color to what you're doing.
Dad hesitated at the arch, only to kiss my cheek and smile reassuringly. After all, tomorrow we'd do it all again.