She is standing there by the window, in my memory, but not as the grown woman in the exquisite ivory wedding gown who stands there now. As I enter the room and see my daughter, looking out expectantly for the car, a memory of another time comes forward to me so strongly…
Suddenly it is thirty years before. Though dark outside, the moonlight is streaming in through the window, and my little Molly is standing in a moonbeam, face pressed against the cold glass, staring out into the snow-covered garden.
“Look, Daddy, the snow has come! Do you think that Santa will be able to come now?”
I am a younger man; stronger and surer on my feet, and I cross to the window and quickly enfold my flannel-clad princess in my arms and pick her up;
“You, Mistress Molly, are supposed to be in bed. Santa won’t stop by this house if little girls are wandering about trying to sneak a peek of him about his task. Come on, I’ll take you back to bed and tuck you in.”
And then I am back in the room, and my daughter is to be a bride this day.