An Anniversary and a Lost Bra
33 years ago, my mother forgot my bra. It was the day I was marrying Innocent Husband.
I can’t remember why the white, lacy padded bra that would perch beneath my wedding dress was at my mother’s, but she promised to bring it when she and my father picked me up to haul me to the church.
An hour later, gathering up my cake-like wedding dress, worn by my mother, my white heels, and my near-hysterical nerves, we tumbled to the van. “You have my bra Mom, right?”
“Yes, of course I do, Cathy.”
She was breathless.
I was breathless.
“I would not forget your bra.” Her tone was a little snappy, but I let it go and clambered into our orange and white hippy van. I was snappy, too. As in: snappy-panicked.
Was I really getting married? It appeared that I was, given that my very Catholic, rule-abiding, gentle father was driving, almost on two wheels, around corners to get to the church on time, my mother and I clutching the door handles as if we might fly out.
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