Everything is a white snowscape in June made of flowers, silk, and ribbons. If he turns around, friends and relatives pop out against the white like early spring flowers.

He’s nervous, entirely alone in front of a room full of people, and he considers leaving—just walking out the side door, through the manicured garden and going home—when the music starts.

An organ doesn’t sound like a happy instrument, and it’s a real shame, because when it plays the march, hearts swell with emotion. He believes it’s beautiful and an appropriate sound for such a moment. Fanfare announcing he most important person had entered and is walking down the aisle to stand beside him for their world to see.

Head-to-toe in white, she stands out against the snowy background because of her black hair, pink cheeks, and radiance.

They anxiously squeeze hands; she hands her bouquet aide to touch his cheek with her other hand. The lace of her glove is rough and drags against his skin. Sweat betrays her nerves, damp on his jaw, and he priest drops his book to the pulpit with a bang.