Mirrors have no place in churches.

My gown sparkles in the wall sconce’s dim glow, my hair remains impeccably soft, but my eyes have changed. I’ve realized that I don’t know what I’m doing, that my life has run away from me, out of control. The girl in the mirror does not look happy and proud of herself, as a bride should. There’s no blush in her cheeks, no smile upon her full lips. No bridesmaids reassure her from the corners of the reflection.

She is alone in her barely-lit world, dressed in lamb white and waiting for sacrifice. Her eyes are not filled with wonder and hope, but something else. The dress shimmers over curves, sheer sleeves delicate on creamy shoulders. Again I come to her eyes, noticably sad in this silent room. This is a funeral, not a wedding.

When he says “I do.” will I remember the night he first held my hand, or hers? Will I tremble and smile, or burst into tears? Her eyes ask these questions, and I turn, unable to look any longer.

Mirrors have no place in churches.