If you love her, I’ll see it

Personal Essay

Tonight, everyone in my family is having dinner with someone they haven’t seen in a long time. My dad and I. My mom and her best friend. My step-dad and his daughter. I don’t know my brother’s dinner plans for the night. His friends will probably order a pizza or maybe they’ll walk to the Mediterranean place down the street. My brother loves it there. I do too. The waiters are friendly and they hand out free samples of fresh fruit smoothies. I’ve been there twice with my brother. Both times he ordered the chicken shawarma.

My brother is coming home in the morning. My mom and I are going to pick him up. He brings a laundry basket full of dirty clothes with him every time. No matter what time it is or how early he went to bed, he always sleeps on the ride home. We are getting breakfast tomorrow. My mom and brother and I. My mom told him to invite friends; there are extra seats in her car. She’ll drop them off before we head home.

I met two of his friends about a month ago outside of the Detroit Institute of Arts. I spotted my brother in a wool lined denim jacket and dark washed jeans. He wore a hoodie beneath the jacket. And his white Adidas shoes. He was hunched over, shivering. Hands in pockets. Hood up. Knees knocking. His back was facing me as I approached. I could see his friends’ faces. The girl had auburn bangs. The boy had a mustache. I don’t remember their names or majors or how many layers they wore in the cold. But I remember the brides. I remember the photographer. He pointed to a rectangle of shade for the bridal party to stand in. Shade means good lighting. No harsh sun lines across the face. No shadows. There were so many shivering brides that day. Teeth chattering. Bouquets twitching. The groomsmen jumping. For the love of God, someone give her a jacket. 

We walked across the street to the library. Another bride in the stairwell, standing against a stained glass window. She had a white, fluffy shawl covering her shoulders like the fur of a Pomeranian. The photographer was squatting. He touched his fingertips to the floor for balance. A camera case sat beside him with chargers, lens caps, and reflectors protruding through the zippers.

From the top of the stairwell, I peered over the railing and watched the groom watch his bride. I watched him closely, waiting for some proof to cross his eyes or lips. If you love her, I thought. I’ll see it. His arms rested along his torso. He flicked dust from his left shoulder. He leaned closer to the photographer, trying to see the images as they flashed on the camera’s mini square screen. He started to sway. The photographer motioned for him to join his bride. He lowered his chin and skipped a little. I thought he might jog to her. His eagerness made her giggle like a stunted hiccup. If you love her, I’ll see it. With one hand on her stomach and the other on her back, he brought her closer. I saw his lips. He whispered to her through a full faced grin. Whatever he said made her quiet for a moment. Then she laughed and laughed and laughed, looking up at him, leaning into his body. I heard the camera shutter like a machine gun. This is great you two. That’s beautiful. Keep that up, keep that up, keep that up. 

 

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