Down This Same Aisle
   By Adrian Magnuson

The wedding march begins, processional theme
to your future life of children, turtles, dogs,
and goldfish bowls, And to your future husband,
awaiting our approach.

We walk arm-in-arm, my black tux and your white gown,
your hands trembling, mine too.  You turn to me,
your nervous smile and words both asking,
“Am I doing the right thing, should I run before it’s too late?”
I mutter something about jitters but my mind has drifted off. 
I see my father’s tux and Wendy’s gown as ours today,
and four years later, my dark suit to match my mother’s,
again, down this same aisle.

I stood beside my mother then,
we released my father for the first time,
as we have caught and released him many times since. 
Yet, he is always there, we touch him with our memories.

And now I am my father, as I give you to your husband,
your brother, as I release you from your childhood dreams.  And yes,
I feel the fatherly possessive wrestling with a brother’s joy,
neither to be denied. 

Today’s purple bridesmaids gowns,
yesterday’s purple vestments,
both speak of human ties.  There is embodied here
both continuity and letting go. 

Our ceremonies reinforce our need,
leaving us to walk down this same aisle,
first to loose a binding,
then to tie one.