My husband lifted my veil, but it was only one of many. And there is one that he can never lift, my final one, carved from stone.
You may have read about us in the paper. Or him, at least. My name was rarely mentioned.
The headlines read only “Man Marries Statue.”
People thought it was a stunt, a shock-and-awe piece of performance art. Could a statue even say “I do”?, they asked. I can and I did — I said it with my eyes, as I stared intensely off into the middle distance.
We met at a gallery opening; I’d been carved by hand nearly sixty years before, but he wasn’t intimidated by my age. I’ll confess that I didn’t notice him right away. It wasn’t until the security guard had to ask him to please take a step back from the art that I noticed his breath was nearly fogging my marble.
He came to visit me several times after that first night; he’d stand ten feet away, where my eyes finally focus. We found we enjoyed many of the same things: soft lighting, low music, and looking to the left.
When he heard I was bound for California, he cashed in his inheritance to ensure I stayed close. The gallery was so pleased, they offered to host our wedding right where we’d first met. The receptionist crafted a floral crown and veil for me, and they brought my husband a stepladder for our first kiss. I’m rather tall, which can intimidate some men, but not him.
It’s been five years since the movers wheeled me across the threshold of our home. I mostly keep to the living room, because, and this isn’t something I admit to often, I weigh just shy of five tons.
My husband tells me not to think about that. He tells me: never change.
Front page image by Anita Carril.
GHOST WRITER is a project by Tracy Danger Mumford. New sections are released every other Sunday. If you’d like to receive email alerts—and that’s all you’ll get, a short email—saying the new one’s up, sign up here: