“A Wedding dress is both intimate and personal for a woman— it must reflect the personality and style of the bride.”— Caroline Herrera
Lucille has long, wavy brown hair that, when loose, cascades down to her tailbone. Today she has it arranged in a long thick braid that swirls around her head. Baby’s breath adorns it, and there is no denying that she looks ever so radiant in that hairstyle.
Her face is powdered, and she wears a little dab of blush on her cheeks and mascara on her eyelashes. She is pretty, to begin with, but today she looks ever so beautiful.
“Lipstick later, after you’re in your dress because we don’t want it staining it accidentally,” says Nicca. Instinctively, my sister and I wet our lips at the mention of lipstick.
Six women stand in the room. It is the room that Momma always keeps locked.
“Too many pins and needles that could pierce little fingers,” is all she would give us as an explanation. We were never allowed in there. Today we stand with our backs to the door, looking in.
Next to Lucille stands the seamstress; Ms. Rose to everyone, Momma to us. Momma’s there to help Lucille get into her wedding gown.
I have seen Momma do this countless times before, but the admiration comes from new people every time that the whole experience feels different.
“What a beautiful piece of material this is,” Momma had said the day the mailman brought the box containing the white material. But Momma said that about every piece of cloth she ever worked with. I have seen her hold all her pieces of fabric with reverence, and then after that, seen how my mother’s beautiful eyes glow like beacons in the dark. That glow always made her look prettier to me.
After that initial reaction, Momma would never expose that beautiful material again in our presence until it was unveiled on a day like today.
The dress is laid on the floor with a crinoline arranged inside of it. Wearing only stockings and undergarments, Lucille is made to stand on a low ladder. Two ladies hold her outstretched arms, and from up there, she slides the bottom half of her body smoothly into the skirt of the wedding gown.
“She looks like a mannequin there standing like that,” my sister whispers to me.
“I know,” I say, bubbling with excitement, “I want to be a bride too someday.” We both giggle.
Momma proceeds to help Lucille with the sleeves– seamstress and bride’s heads almost touching. One arm goes in first– in slow motion, then the other.
The embroidery on the sleeves and the bodice, with the pearls and small beads in the shape of happy tears and the boat neckline that fits her perfectly, all these alluring points elicit compliments mingled with tears directed at the bride.
“Oh Lucy,” exclaims Lucille’s mother, “you look so beautiful in that dress. Good choice! Look at that, everyone — what a beauty this daughter of mine is.”
“Yes, beautiful Lucille,” says her sister, Nicca.
“Beautiful.”
“…beautiful,” the others repeat. They can’t seem to come up with other words besides beautiful.
My sister and I look at each other, “Aww — beautiful,” we say in unison, nodding.
“She looks like Cinderella,” I add.
“Uh-huh, just like a princess,” sister adds.
Momma stands behind Lucille, buttoning the long line of silk buttons. Pride swells on her face as she hears the others complimenting the bride.
Someone kneels in front of Lucille and helps her slide her feet into what looks to us like tiny glass slippers. Lucille looks down at her shoes and then straightens up. Her motions, precisely like those of Cinderella in the movie, I observe.
She looks into the long mirror rolled in front of her and does not conceal her delight.
“No crying, please,” warns Nicca, “that will ruin your makeup, and it will stain the dress. No, no, no!”
“But Cinda… oops, Lucille is not crying,” whispers my sister.
“She’s happy. This is the day that she has been waiting for,” says Momma. “She’s on her way to marry the man she loves.” My sister and I nod.
“Oh, happy day,” Lucille says, smiling, and forcing her eyes off the mirror, she looks around the room. She finds my mother standing by the door beside us. Lucille extends her arms in our direction. Momma walks up to her, and she and Lucille clasp hands.
“You look beautiful,” Momma says to her.
“Oh, Ms. Rose, thank you. The dress is even more beautiful than in the catalog. You are a real magician with these hands. Thank you.”
The wind is still as the beautiful bride walks out the door of our storefront.
She has lipstick on her lips, a bouquet of lilies in her hand, and a long tulle veil on her head. Escorted by her mother, Lucille walks the short distance from our house to the church.
She walks erect, with a radiance emanating from her soul. She demurely acknowledges the well-wishes from our neighbors and Saturday shoppers who stop to look.
Momma holds our hands and walks us closer to the church. We see Lucille let go of her mother’s hand and clutch onto her father’s arm. The women who walked with her from our store disappear inside the church, and a procession of young women– wearing long dresses of the same color line up behind Lucille.
The bride and her entourage disappear inside the church as the happy wedding bells loudly announce the happy occasion. The onlookers clap, some wave at Momma; we stroll back home.
Credits: Image by Марина Вельможко from Pixabay
THANKS FOR READING.
I Wish You Miracles.
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