The wedding photograph on my dresser had faded over 45 years, but Robert’s grip on my hand was still easy to see. When we returned to that little Italian church, a stranger found our names in an old ledger and brought us an envelope that had been waiting for both of us to come back together at last.
The photograph from our wedding has been sitting on my dresser for forty-five years.
In it, Robert is wearing a suit that doesn’t quite fit.
I’m holding a small bouquet of white flowers.
In it, Robert is wearing a suit that doesn’t quite fit.
Behind us stand three women: my mother, my sister, and Robert’s mother.
That was our entire wedding party.
No bridesmaids.
No expensive reception.
No photographer telling us how to stand.
Just five people outside a small church in Italy, squinting into the afternoon sun.
That was our entire wedding party.
Robert has always insisted he wasn’t nervous.
I have photographic evidence that says otherwise.
He’s gripping my hand so tightly that my knuckles are almost white.
“That’s because you nearly fell down the steps,” he told me once.
“I did not.”
He’s gripping my hand so tightly.
“You were looking at your flowers instead of your feet, doll.”
He’d been teasing me about those steps for forty-five years.
***
We were young when we married.
Robert’s family had roots in Italy, and he’d always wanted to be married in the church where his grandparents had worshipped.
We were young when we married.
We saved for months to make the trip.
My mother and sister came with us, along with his mother.
The ceremony was simple.
Afterward, we ate dinner at a little restaurant, where the owner brought us an extra dessert because we’d just gotten married.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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