The wedding was held in October at a small stone venue outside Ottawa.
Eighty-two guests.
Not one hundred forty.
The decorations were simple.
Candles.
Greenery.
Flowers Claire and her sister arranged the night before.
June wore navy.
The same navy dress Claire once said photographed old.
Claire had called three months earlier.
“I owe you one more apology.”
“You probably owe me several.”
Claire laughed.
Then said, “Wear the navy.”
June did.
She stood in the getting-ready suite that morning beside Claire’s mother and sister.
No one made room reluctantly.
Claire asked June to fasten the clasp on her necklace.
June’s fingers shook.
“Arthritis,” she said.
Claire looked at her in the mirror.
“No rush.”
Those two words nearly undid her.
No rush.
June had spent thirty-one years rushing through rooms before checkout times.
Rushing through dinners before night shifts.
Rushing through motherhood because there was always another bill.
No rush felt like a gift.
The ceremony was brief.
Ethan cried first.
Claire teased him.
June cried second.
After dinner, Ethan stood to speak.
June became nervous immediately.
Public gratitude had begun to make her wary.
He thanked Claire’s parents.
His friends.
The guests.
Then he looked at June.
“My mother made me a quilt last year.”
