Self-Solemnization

Yung-Su brings a live dove, a Eurasian Collared with dust-brown wings and a black nape, holding it in both of his hands like a carton of eggs. Beats the hell out of Ever’s “With Deepest Sympathy” card and my bouquet of stargazer lilies, stained pale pink inside, mouth-like. “Funeral?” says the gentleman at the pupusa stand, reluctant to charge us for our horchatas.

“Wedding,” Ever corrects and pays in dull quarters. I’ve netted my watering eyes with a birdcage veil, have to lift it to sip. Kiko, my bride and our officiant, catches me with a soft, milky kiss. The four of us sit down on the curb with our legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles, all of us in gowns and sneakers, and when Yung-Su releases the dove, it carries too high against the sun so that we have to wince to watch it recede.