A Brief Protestation on the Phrasing of Wedding Vows

by Haylee Nguyen

 

I don't think you could call it a crime, what I did. Unconventional, yes. But not a crime.

It is, of course, perhaps simpler if I explain myself.

The first thing you must understand is that I loved my wife. I loved her in our youth, when we were spritely and awkward. And I loved her in our later years, pondering over crosswords and cups of tea.

The second thing you must understand is that I love her. Present tense. And that I will

love her. Future tense.

The third is that she left me entirely too early.

"My love, are you sure we're going the right way?"

Her hand is on my thigh, and mine are on the wheel. The windows are down, and when the wind whips through her hair, the scent of her shampoo fills the car.

"You never trust my sense of direction," I say, my smile light and teasing.

I'm still thinking about that smile, and her hand, and her shampoo, when I catch the first notes of her scream.

I didn't attend the funeral.

"How dreadful," you'll say. "How tragic. To think that she didn't go. How large was the guilt? How wide was the grief?"

If there is another thing you must know, dear reader, it is this: that the funeral was an absolute bore. And my wife hated bores. Which is precisely why I wasn't there. Out of respect for her, you see.

It also didn't help that she wasn't there, either. Not in body, anyway.

You would have done what I did, if you saw her there. If you saw her beautiful, perfect face carved away by metal and rust and glass.

You would have crawled to her, on bleeding hands and knees. You would have pressed your fingers to the side of her neck, and felt nothing. You would have begged for your creator to take you away; to kill you instead, to strike you down where you stand.

But you would not have said goodbye to her, do you hear? You would not have left her there to rot.

What nonsense that phrase is, that they make you say: ‘til death do us part. What

idiocy.

I took her home. I carried her across the threshold like I did when we first bought the house. I slipped her shoe off of the leg that still remained. I laid pillows and blankets on my workbench in the garage, and I placed her upon it. I pressed a gentle kiss to her mouth.

And then, I got to work.

I would have done better, if I had the time. If I had finer materials, and if her skin were in better condition. But I had to work fast. I needed her back with me.

I'm sorry that I couldn't restore her to her real beauty. I'm sorry that all I had were the remnants of our wrecked car. I'm sorry that the radio in her chest replaced her lovely little laugh. I'm sorry that her palms aren't soft anymore, and that her eyes aren't the same exact shade of honey brown.

You should know how marvellous she was, when she came alive. You should know that when I connected the wires in her heart, she danced like she did on our wedding day.

You should know that I held her, when I finished. Even weeks later, when her flesh rotted away and the circuits stopped connecting, I kept holding her. I hold her, even now.

I loved her. I love her. I will love her.

 

Author Bio: Haylee Nguyen is an English and Screen Production student at ECU. When she writes stories and screenplays, her goal is to imbue her writing with the same silly, energetic energy possessed by a wavy wacky inflatable tube man. She wants to explore love, loss, and everything beyond and in between in the funkiest lens possible.

 

Copyright © Haylee Nguyen, 2025