The Hamlet Project

I missed my mother’s wedding.
I was not even a zygote then
But I did see my fathers wedding,
Some 12 years later.
They bought me a stiff blue dress made out of some polyester fabric that hung on me
Like wet paper. They straightened my hair and walked me down the aisle.
I think I had something to say like “I do”
Because ritually, I was agreeing to the ceremony, to the union.
Believe me, I “didn’t” but I understood what was expected of me.
For years the sound of Pachelbel’s Canon filled me with dread –
A march down the aisle toward darkness
Toward silencing myself
Toward defending against wild irrationality
Toward watching people I thought were strong cower in the face of barks and manipulations
Toward pretending pretending that everything was going to be alright
When I knew full well it wasn’t.
Even now, thinking about that walk, my jaw tightens up
Like a screw in a hinge, closing the gap
Attempting to hold back the flood of words
Waiting to stream out.
If you made a flip book of the wedding photos, the ones you’d find me in:
I wonder if you could see me getting smaller and smaller
Shrinking into myself
From the aisle, to the altar, to the dinner, to the dance floor, to the posed family photos
Smaller and smaller
Shorter and shorter
Pulling inward like a snail.