It was November 15th, 1912, and we were five.
In a way, you were my cousin, though not really because you were my aunt's stepson. My aunt was happy that she married your father, and you were happy that your father was happy.
We met at the wedding where you were the ring bearer and I was the flower girl. Once our roles had been fulfilled, we found ourselves sitting together, but we didn't speak, mostly because we were too shy.
Under a canopy of gossamer and satin, they exchanged their self-crafted vows, painting an image of a beautiful future through words which seemed to be strung together so effortlessly.
You fidgeted, kept on itching your wrist -because that's what you did when you were bored or nervous.
Occasionally, I glanced at you from the corner of my eye, and you would catch me looking. In response, you'd stop itching your wrist and divert your attention towards one of the many arched windows.
The weather was terrible that day; we could hear the wind roaring against the walls of the church, seemingly intent on destruction. Outside, a constant storm of red-orange leaves swirled through the air as thick grey clouds sailed across the sky.
But inside the church, so irretrievably caught up in that modest little ceremony, we barely noticed it.
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