I roll over in bed for the hundredth time tonight. Sleep escapes me as dark circles underscore my eyes. I must look rested tomorrow! Wasn’t it only yesterday that she would run to me so I could kiss her ‘boo boo’? I yearn to hold and rock her just once more; but would I be able to let go? To hug with such heart-felt passion could scare her. If I hug her long, like my arms are aching to, she might think I’m frightened for her; that there might be something to be afraid of. So I’ll just busy myself tomorrow, fussing with the house, the food, the family, and all the last-minute preparations. I shall hide in the hustle and bustle of it all. I’ve learned to do that well. Is there no where to find peace tonight? Through the filter of fatigue, I slide in and out of sleep.

I’m the first person up in the morning, of course. Memories and the dread of change ricochet through all of my senses. Beginning today, our daughter won’t be sitting at the family table -- one chair will be empty. I won’t be hearing the ritualistic cries of, “Mom, my hair looks awful, I ’m bored, and do I have to do the dishes tonight?”
I keep busy preparing breakfast, which feels like the ‘Last Supper’, for my still sleeping family. “I’ve got to stop this negative thinking”, I chastise myself
I’ve grown accustomed to wearing many hats through my life, those of daughter, wife, and mother; today I will have to re-arrange my hairdo to fit a new one. Its name will be “Mother-in-Law”. I squirm at the very thought of being saddled with the results of all the tasteless jokes handed down through the years about this particular member of the family. Will my new son-in-law love me as I do him, or will I be known as the mother-in-law?
I don’t want to be someone tolerated on holidays. The term in-law should be out-lawed. When a couple adopts a child, she or he automatically becomes an integral part of the family. I pray that Denise and Jeff’s wedding will unite our two families in the same way. I’ll do my best.
At last, feet thudding down the stairs halts my confused thinking. Sleepy eyed Denise, looking younger and tinier than ever, enters the kitchen after everyone else is seated. Tonight, a negligee will replace the comfy sweats she now wears. Will she be warm enough?
For the first time I won’t be able to say, “Be home on time.” The six of us eat, talking a little, but mostly quiet hovers over the kitchen.
The beautiful white rite of passage hangs ever so regally in our dining room.
“Kids, don’t step on Denise’s dress.”
“Walk carefully around her veil.”
Her two sisters and brother stare, until she notices, then they quickly turn away. They feel so many emotions this morning. They are feeling excitement, awe, fear, abandonment, and love. Are they really experiencing these feelings, or are they mine I imagine in their eyes?
Our home resembles an ant colony; everyone running around with a purpose. The delightful sounds of curling irons twirling, hair dryers screaming, and the aroma of perfume and hair spray, fill my senses to overflowing.
I open the door to Denise’s room. The hairdresser has transformed her locks into a lovely frame for her radiant face. Not much makeup is needed; it looks as though roses have come down from heaven’s garden, taking residence on her cheeks today. Denise’s two sisters and best friend are finally dressed and look absolutely gorgeous in their lovely pale peach organza floor-length gowns. They’re the perfect ornaments the dresses needed. The big blue eyes of Denise’s pint-size brother, David, seem to have matured beyond his ten years today. Handsome in his white tuxedo, I can already picture him as a grown man.
Time stop!
I’m breathless.

Somehow I’m finally ready. I need a little more blush on my cheeks today. The doorbell is ringing, and everyone seems to be arriving at once -- grandparents, friends, the florist and photographer. Coffee is being poured and doughnuts devoured, as I try to load the dishwasher just one more time.
The moment has come for me to help my daughter, enveloping her lovely countenance in the white veil of purity and privilege. I look at her through the lace -- is she me, 24 years ago? The likeness is a ‘still-frame’, snapped by my heart. We walk hand in hand to the living- room where everyone is waiting. The photographer is taking pictures quickly.
“Now Dad, you and the bride move a little to the left. Ring-bearer, hold the pillow still. Now put the garter on. Bridesmaids, put your arms around the bride. Mom, move your feet to the right.”
I’m exhausted, and the day has hardly even begun!
“Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue”, is a small description of life itself. So many chapters to be left behind, be remembered, and to be used as a compass for her future. Looking at Denise in her wedding dress, I hear a sweet little voice whispering through my heart’s recollection. “Mommie, can I play dress-up today?”
“Yes you may, my darling daughter, yes you may.”
Going-away clothes and her honeymoon wardrobe are packed and ready to go. The clock announces the time has come to depart for the church. Denise’s dad helps her into the limousine, which has somehow taken on the character of Cinderella’s carriage. From afar, I watch. This is tradition, to be honored and fostered. I stand waving from our front porch as the limo proceeds slowly down our leafy neighborhood. The trees form a canopy of green overhead.
“Did I kiss her good-bye?” Staring at the back of the white limousine, which now looks like a slow-motion movie -- a gloom washes over me -- I feel alone. In the midst of the melancholy, my eyes begin over-flowing with hot tears -- ones of elation! As the car begins turning the corner, I see it -- Denise’s delicate arm, adorned in white lace, is waving through the side window to me; her eyes smile bright through veiled loveliness.
I am remembered!
I’d better hurry -- after all, I am the Mother of the Bride today!