Mama said “wedding crowns,” and I looked at the tight bouquets, dark white, forbidding, portraits of ancient weddings, too serious, the groom stiff, the bride boxed, like a doll, adorned with rhinestones.
The brides of the orchards crossing the entire lettuce garden to get married, followed by the train of snow, run to the woods, the churches, the remote ranches, the solitary houses, from which, always, smoke arose, murmur of pianos.

My mother said “wedding crown,” and...