The Wedding Dress (for mother's day)

She never wore it-- the
old lace, smelling faintly of
yellowed dreams.  Never walked down the
aisle, sounding holy music, soft
so not to frighten
this strange approach to happiness.
She married still, in pink.  A bright
rose suit cheery as grass,
tinted for optimism.

In law I do, they took
each other, and by death were not
parted.  They survived, though
perhaps not for better, and
health often seemed far.  Worse,
and the sermon that was never preached
could not warn them.  The
dress lay dusty in
a box, the veil
folded.  It could not
hide the lines that sear her face.

The sacrament, virgin bride in
white, was not observed.  Hope
they stored away in a
closet, dry for what could
have been and was not.  Mildew, the
pureness marred, and fading to beige.
Untouched, enshrouded, pale,
my mother's wedding dress.