Like sentinels, a series of photographs stand in a row in the living room of my parents' home. They depict several couples who, stiffly at attention, face the camera. The women are encased in lacy white gowns that cover every inch of their bodies; the men are similarly entombed in suits, ties, and top hats. Near as I can tell, there's no sparkle in anyone's eyes; the kind of moony glances characteristic of the lovelorn are absent, too. No one is smiling.
This grim lot were my grandparents and great-grandparents.
I have no idea whether their unhappy mien had to do with the unfamiliar weight of their wedding attire or the novelty of the occasion—it might well have been the first time they were in the company of a professional photographer, which made them uncomfortable. Perhaps the prospect of marriage didn't thrill them, either. Whatever the reason, these brides and grooms are frozen in time and space. The liveliest thing about each couple is the ornate metal frame that contains them.
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