Then hints of fall began to settle around us, and the possibility of a disastrous and potentially violent election reared its ugly head, cementing the importance of my dual citizenship between the U.S. and Ireland. I’d spent the last year loving a man who had done everything he could to make my life better during a plague. He brought me coffee and snacks when I couldn’t get out of bed, drove me across the country to be with my mother when she fell and broke her back, and even dutifully watched the crap TV shows that I turned to for comfort on my darkest days. Surely the best thing I could give him was a way out if things became even more unstable. So we decided, once again, to get married—though this time around there would be no pomp, only some circumstance.
Our elopement came together in less than a week. I wore a Mexican lace nightgown that had belonged to my grandmother, a woman with a sense of style all her own. It was a piece I’d always admired, and when she gave it to me shortly before her death, I couldn’t help but cry. I bought a bunch of wildflowers from a stand down the street for my bouquet, and the baker of our original cake dropped off a smaller version she’d lovingly made pro bono. It would be just the two of us, plus a justice of the peace, and a local photographer, aptly named Love.
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