Our elopement came together in less than a week. I wore a Mexican lace nightgown that had belonged to my grandmother, a woman with a sense of style all her own. It was a piece I’d always admired, and when she gave it to me shortly before her death, I couldn’t help but cry. I bought a bunch of wildflowers from a stand down the street for my bouquet, and the baker of our original cake dropped off a smaller version she’d lovingly made pro bono. It would be just the two of us, plus a justice of the peace, and a local photographer, aptly named Love.
Then hints of fall began to settle around us, and the possibility of a disastrous and potentially violent election reared its ugly head, cementing the importance of my dual citizenship between the U.S. and Ireland. I’d spent the last year loving a man who had done everything he could to make my life better during a plague. He brought me coffee and snacks when I couldn’t get out of bed, drove me across the country to be with my mother when she fell and broke her back, and even dutifully watched the crap TV shows that I turned to for comfort on my darkest days. Surely the best thing I could give him was a way out if things became even more unstable. So we decided, once again, to get married—though this time around there would be no pomp, only some circumstance.
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