He used to eat raw oatmeal out of the packet, wear his giant jeans rolled up to his knees, and go to bed dressed head to toe, even wearing his shoes, so he could sleep that extra five minutes. He once chased me with a hammer, screaming "Smell my fart!" and it was exactly as awful and completely hilarious as you'd think. He is my baby brother, and my baby brother is now so handsome and grown up—an executive pastry chef and a husband.

The day started at 6 in the morning with makeup, then running laps around the hallways of the hotel, looking for money and keys and some person to tell something and breakfast and coffee and back for touch-ups and hair and pictures and a furtive cigarette out by the pool and pressing the dress and being asked "Are you going to press your dress?" and indignation because it was fine except after Aunt Betty gets ahold of it with her iron, it is returned in pristine condition and maybe you just don't know how to iron, and arranging for rides, and rearranging, and rearranging again, and ducking in to make sure the bride's head, which seems on the verge of exploding, has not yet exploded. Then running into the groom in the hall, and realizing he has never in his life been this nervous, and that it might be a romantic dual-head explosion.

Arriving at the venue—a beautiful Victorian mansion. Cringing at the video camera—a video camera! No one said there'd be a video camera! Oh, holy hell. Trying to act natural but realizing it is completely and one hundred percent impossible not to keep looking straight into the lens of the camera like some kind of giant dork and knowing any reality television dreams have been cut abruptly short. Starving. Starving to death. Sitting in a small room, all the dresses lined up on a rack, the hem of the wedding dress trailing against the rug, and realizing a wedding is going to happen, and happen soon, because there is the dress and here is the bride, wringing her hands. Oh thank god, cheese. Oh thank god, champagne.

Disappearing into the bathroom and dressing. Emerging, one by one, in yellow, and suddenly we are a flock of lovely birds, in lovely plumage. Blaming the champagne for the terrible, emotional analogies, but wallowing in the treacle. Holding tight to the arms of the chair as the bride steps into her gown and turns to the mirror. She is nervous, but she shouldn't be. He loves her so much, and she is so lovely right now. Her mother holds her hand as she steps into her yellow heels. And through all this the photographer is quietly snapping photos of us, of the bouquets, of the room and the dress and the moment and I am grateful because this is a moment that I am afraid to forget.

Fear, suddenly, tromping down the stairs and lining up and being told what to do and where to go and how will I possibly remember any of this? The groom, suddenly, in his suit, and my arms around him and he is so nervous and I am so proud of him. "You look nice," he says to me. "I told you the dress would work out." My speech is tucked into my bouquet, and I want to throw up. We line up and we are marching and there is my brother at the altar, just waiting for her, and I am arranged with the other bridesmaids and realize I'm not nervous about my reading anymore, because I want to tell them these things.

The pastor tells us how much they are meant for each other and their joy is palpable. You want to reach out and cut yourself a sliver that will last you the whole of your life. They are married, racing down the aisle, and somehow I walk a straight line despite the tears in my eyes.

We burst back into the wedding hall and then the reception is beautiful, and here is their first dance. That is when I lose my shit completely. I have kept it together all through the day, but now, after seeing him in his wedding suit and how beautiful my mother looks and the yellow rose they leave on a chair for my father and their vows and the kiss, I start bawling, while they do a choreographed swing dance to "Accidentally In Love," and I couldn't even tell you why.

I could blubber about how he is so brave, doing something he hates in front of a hundred people, probably feeling a little stupid, a little ridiculous, but, god, look how happy he is and look how well he is doing, so wonderfully well, and he is laughing and just look at the way he looks at his wife, his brand new wife who sparkles up at him as they dance. He is not my baby brother anymore. Then I hate it, and feel a sharp stab of nostalgia for that moment when you realize nothing stays the same, but, goddamnit, why not? And then the flood of tears because I am goddamn proud, so unbelievably proud of him. And then I blow my nose and laugh because I've become all fucking maudlin and treacly, but you have to forgive me, because weddings, they do that to you.