Issue link: https://read.dmtmag.com/i/287250
30 brava magazine | april 2014 Here Comes tHe bride a final walk in solitude by kristine Hansen it was tHe perfect metapHor for a woman wHo Had lived a very independent life. tHrive muse At my recent wedding there was no question about who would walk me down the aisle. I already knew who would not. My father, who would have loved my fiancé Tony's inquisitive nature and even-keeled demeanor, died in 1995. My younger brother was lined up as photog- rapher, to snap photos as we exchanged vows. So, I would walk myself down the aisle. Tony and I decided it was the perfect metaphor for a 38-year-old woman who moved out of her parents' Midwestern ranch-style home 16 years earlier and since then has traveled to 19 countries and lived a very independent life thousands of miles away. In my mind, I'd already been given away. As we made wedding preparations, I worried about anxiety or panic at not having an elbow to lean on in the mo- ment. So, I pondered how much I'd done alone until now, including moving to a city where I knew one person and jetting off to foreign countries where I did not understand the language. Acting alone, I had put out an online ad for a partner, which delivered a mess of dates with Mr. Wrongs, but also brought me to Tony. Now, with him as a life partner, there would be fewer solo times. Walking my- self down the aisle began to take on new meaning: a final walk in solitude. Two weeks before the wedding I broke out into a sweat while chatting with Tony and the minister inside the sanc- tuary. e aisle seemed longer than I'd remembered. I don't like attention, and I pictured our guests rising in unison and whipping their heads around to view me in the back of the church. How would I don a smile that didn't look forced? What if I stumbled, even tripped and fell? How the heck should I hold my bouquet of sunflowers with grace (not an iron fist)? What if I wept at seeing Tony in his tux? At the rehearsal I walked too quickly, so on wedding day I took a deep breath before walking, slowly, toward my soon- to-be husband. I saw my mother-in-law first, a tear in her eye as she clutched her chest in happiness, leaning gingerly into the aisle from the second row. In the back row sat my father's sister, whom I had not seen in 18 years since that last time in a church basement after my father's memorial service. Friends from different areas of my life—church, writing groups, college and those I'd adopted from To- ny's circle—filled my vision. e last time I'd walked alone with eyes upon me was during the eighth grade. Arriving on stage to accept a merit award—with sweaty armpits and clam- my hands, after a nerve-wracking walk through the crowd—I spotted my father's grin near the back of the gymnasium. I carried that calming memory with me to the altar. ere were moments after my father's death when I felt truly alone in my sad- ness, sensing that the final chapter of my own life could be inexplicably near. But that awareness also lit a fire in me, inspir- ing an exciting life, one that would bring a walk down the aisle to join Tony.