Here Cums The Bride Dancing Bear Today

Here cums the bride—all five hundred pounds of grief and grace. The music stops. She bows, snout to the dirt. The groom removes his hat. A child throws a single rose.

She doesn’t walk. She lumbers. A massive silhouette against the setting sun, draped in a veil of torn lace and wilted daisies. Her fur is the color of muddy honey, matted with confetti and old champagne. A rusted tiara sits crooked between her small, dark eyes. here cums the bride dancing bear

Here cums the bride.

She is not trained. She is widowed. Three summers ago, her real mate was shot for stealing honey from the magistrate’s kitchen. Now, she dances for stale bread and the echo of a lullaby. Each step is a memory. Each grunt, a whispered hymn. Here cums the bride—all five hundred pounds of

And somewhere, in the darkening meadow, the real wedding guests—the foxes and the moths—begin to applaud. The groom removes his hat