Our marriage is broken, I feel alone like a bride who I has lost her bridegroom in the making.  In the making of a life, in the making of a home, in the making of a family, in the making of good beings for humanity. Where is my bridegroom? Busy in the making of money. Where am I? Busy in the making of YOU happy to my own detriment. I have grown tired of leading from the back. I am invisible as I stand behind my bridegroom, lost in his shadow, a ghost of my former self as he steals my light to boost himself to great heights where he reaps the rewards only to become Ebenezer Scrooge, stingy and reluctant to share with his wife as he believes my role as homemaker and mother of his children warrants no merit. I have made a move to pull back from my husband to pull back from our marriage into a sanctuary of silence comparable to the Seventh Seal which brings sadness to my heavenly parents. 

My life is a jigsaw puzzle broken into a thousand pieces; the cover image is missing so I blindly try to make my puzzle pieces fit to restore some peace of mind. Everything is messy, a mess created by me, by us. I wonder do I, do we, have the know how to make it whole again. I don't know if I even want to try anymore but what are my options: stay or go? I stay for now because of a vow but I pull further back from our marriage into a vow of silence as I wish to piece together my unknown image without any influence from my other half. Each piece in front of me is like a fallen memory, some are face down while others are upright and cling together for dear life which gives me hope but I separate my memories to solve this puzzle with a fresh pair of eyes in the knowing if we are meant to be together, we will find our way back in time to save us. 

Among the mess I spot a middle piece with two keys and two locks, its picture side has, what looks like a pearl on a string with the roundness of an oval sphere in pure white with nacreous and iridescent overtones. On its flip side a red of passion has her back. I immediately know this piece belongs with the bride and go in search of all the pure whites of my gown. I remember my wedding day like it was yesterday the sun splitting the stones as small beads of sweat trickle like tender teardrops.  I blame the heat on my mother-in-law for the enormous Child of Prague statue she put out by her back door on the eve of our wedding but perhaps this glorious sun is a gift in the giving from my older brother who would be present only in spirit on this our wedding day.  The organisation to this pivotal point in time was immense as I prepare to take my father's hand in crossing over the threshold to make our descent slowly down the aisle as my bridegroom with his best man and brothers in arms nervously await our arrival at the top of the Church. My bridesmaids in royal blue with yellow rose bouquets gone ahead to pave the way for the father-of-the-bride and his daughter. I stall at the church door shaking at the prospect of 'til death do us part, so I go in search of my rock, my mother, where was she in this congregational sea of floral frocks with matching hair fascinators.  Then I see her, the best seat in the house for the best mother in the world, today she is the mother-of-the-bride beaming with pride in an Eden hat with a base of pure white lace trimmings which hosts a ridiculous peacock arrangement of feathers in shades of  liberty, light, olive, and apples of green with an odd white angel feather hidden among them to compliment the white coronation in the lapel of her mossy green suit, around her neck a golden chain with the heavy cross of her lost son resting his head peacefully upon her bosom to complete her ensemble in all its crowning glory. 

I put the key in the lock to piece together the white of my wedding gown but a butterfly knot in my stomach yearns for the darkness, so I shove my bride in the making to one side as I go in search of my groom who is in pieces in the black of his top hat and tails with a tie of red. I go to put his key in the lock for him, but my inner voice screams a thunderous roar to STOP now for the love of God stop carrying him, he is not a baby. I let go and quickly push his pieces as far away as possible from me. I always put everyone else over sel, that would be the Irish Mammy in me. I give my mother Joanna a wink and smile as I take my first step inside the Church as the Emerald Bride.

I look to the pink for assistance with the job in hand, pink the colour of unconditional love. I held four pink tiger lilies in my bridal bouquet on our big day. My favourite flower, a striking flower with petals of baby pink featuring a subtle apricot blush with spotted markings of wine against a white backdrop. She blooms large and tall reaching great heights as she appears in abundance over the summer months and her lifespan outlasts all other blossoms. Our wedding was a summer date pencilled in for ten days after my thirty-first birthday, the same year the planes hit the twin towers such a senseless loss of life. It makes me scold myself for wallowing in self-pity over next to nothing, but these feelings of mine are not nothing. I am lost. I am lost in the role of good wife and mother. Where is the girl? Where is the woman? Where is the woman before the man? 

Maybe, I need to go back to a time before YOU to find ME. I close my eyes to picture a piece of the past. I breathe in through the nose then out. Again, in and out.  In and out. I pick up the pace like a person in a mad panic to save a life. But it wasn't my life I was trying to resuscitate, revive or rescue but yours, Mary or so I thought at the time in my mind. 

I drift off into a sleep.... a sweet floral fragrance lingers in the air, it has the hint of a spicy tea-like note perhaps a white rose, an unspoken message of pure love from Mary Our Heavenly Mother who is busy in the making of her presence here known.