Abigail M. Schilling

I saw your wedding invitation last week.

I was over at my sister's house watching the kids and my mom called and we were chatting about--get this--chicken salad (and I don't even like chicken salad, but you knew that) and I was riffling through the papers next to the phone and it was normal stuff: the nursery school phone book, the church calendar, GapKids receipts, a picture of her and I from college (she says she keeps it around because she was so skinny then), and then, my mom was going on and on about the chicken salad and there it was.

Your invitation. Well, your meaning both of you.

It was red and gold. And it was beautiful and the ink was raised and the serifs were perfect and it was perfect and red and gold.

I reminded my mom, again, that I didn't like chicken salad and really she should just wait til my sister came home and have the conversation with her. I made a mental note of the date and time of your wedding and by mental note I mean that it was instantly etched in red and gold into my life.

***

I thought I was okay. I was disappointed but not any more so than any other day when I remember then and now. I was fine.

I went to work. Long meeting, no surprises there. I doodled all over my agenda just like every other meeting. I interacted and took notes just like every other meeting. But I started to feel it in the pit of the stomach.

Because I felt sick to my stomach. Like people always said. And I hate using cliches.

So I had to leave. I had excuse myself and leave the meeting. I had to leave the meeting and go home and sleep.

And I kept telling myself that this is what I wanted for you all along. I wanted you to be really happy.

***

They say you have a year from the date of the wedding to give the gift. That gives me 359 days to be happy for you.

And besides, if you guys end up buying out the registry when you get back from your honeymoon, I can just give you a check and not some awkward gift from the registry.

Of course, I'm already afraid of writing that check. Of signing my name somewhere where you can see it. You, who doesn't deserve any more pain, and yet, I hate myself for even considering that would cause you pain now. Now that you're finally happy.

And of course you'll buy out the registry. We had so many conversations about registries. Mostly because we went to so many weddings, but also because we used to entertain the idea of having a registry. It never made sense when we were traveling but when we would settle on the idea of settling down we settle on the registry as well. I wanted red and gold for the bathroom.

When we went to all those weddings people would bother us about ours as if it was on the calendar in pencil. "So, where do you think you'll honeymoon?" "What are your colors?"

Maybe that was their way of coping with the reality of no date, no dress, no church, no bride. My way of coping was (is) a bottle of champagne and a cardboard coaster.

Letter to a Traveling Lover (part I)
Letter to a Traveling Lover (part II)
Letter to a Traveling Lover (part III)
Letter to a Traveling Lover (part IV)
Letter to a Traveling Lover (part V)