My father’s car always smelled like loose tobacco and freshly ground coffee. I remember sitting in the backseat on Saturdays, eyes level with the window sill, watching the trees whiz by in warp speed while he listened to talk radio and drank his coffee.

That’s when I felt safest. That’s when I felt most loved. It’s weird to admit that today, of all days, but it’s true.

I can hear them calling my name. The ceremony is supposed to begin in five minutes. I should really be down there, and I swear I was going to go through with it. You can call these wedding day jitters, but I think it’s more than that.

I remember when I was a little girl daydreaming about the man I would marry in the backseat of my father’s red 1985 Volkswagen Fox. I imagined him tall, dark, handsome, and so in love with me. I imagined that he smelled like cigars and freshly chopped wood. I imagined him standing there, at the end of the aisle, bathed in such blinding, glorious sunlight that he was only a silhouette. My mind always tried to put a face to the frame, but it never worked, and by the end of each car ride, I was always right where I had begun.

I wonder if they’ll ever think to look up here for me.

That image has stayed with me and I’ve spent my whole adult life looking for the man in front of the sun. You might think that’s crazy and you might be right, but that doesn’t mean I care. He’s my ideal and there’s a reason my mind keeps wandering to the wedding day of my dreams.

My father would crack all the windows just enough so that we could smell the sweet scents of spring and summer, but not enough that my hair would whip around my face. The budding world would float in through the window and mingle with the scent of my father and I would be lulled by the tranquility of driving down long country roads and watching the sun try to peak through the treetops. Every once in a while, it would succeed and its flashes would warm my knees, my cheeks, my shoulders, and I liked to imagine that was the true meaning of being sun-kissed. As I got older, I liked to imagine the man in front of the sun gently kissing me wherever the sun hit my flesh and I was filled with a whole different kind of warmth.

Warmth. That’s what I craved and still crave. I need warmth, calming aromas, and love. This morning I woke up fully intending on marrying August. This morning I felt like we were so in love that I could overlook the fact that he didn’t quite fit in the silhouette.

I met August about a year after I graduated from college. He seemed so right and so different that my 23 year old self couldn’t help falling in love. He is strong, funny, and endearing. He smells like soap and cotton. He has dirty blonde hair, bright green eyes, and the whitest smile I’ve ever seen.

Over time, I would get flashes of him in my daydreams. I’d picture walking down the aisle and suddenly the man in front of the sun had August’s eyes, or his hands, or his smile. I thought it was a sign. I thought our love would build like a puzzle and eventually when it was time, the man in front of the sun would be replaced by August.

My father used to sit me down in the big leather chair in his office and tell me that I was a strong, independent woman capable of making my own decisions. The office smelled like dusty sunlight, old books, and loose tobacco, and I would inhale and accept that the reasons behind my decisions were mine and mine alone. I would exhale and my self-doubt was gone. I would leave the room feeling bigger and better and hopeful that the smells would linger in my hair for a while.

When August proposed, there were only glimmers of him in my daydreams. He’d appear whole and fade into a silhouette the closer I got to him. While we were planning the wedding, I assumed that meant he was just out of reach because the day hadn’t come yet.

Then my father died.

But today is the day and while the stylist was combing her fingers through my hair, I drifted off to my dream day and he wasn’t there at all. There was no sign of him, just the man in front of the sun like always, and what made it worse is that my father wasn’t there either. It felt wrong and it felt like it was going to hurt.

I started dry heaving and hive broke out on my chest. In the commotion to calm me down, my entire bridal party momentarily left me alone and I got to slip away. The door to the bell tower was open and a soft scent of cigars wafted out and I followed it. I climbed up, and up, and up, hiking my wedding gown up as I took each step. Now I’m at the top, breathing in the late May day and wondering what to do next.

I hear them calling my name and it’s becoming more and more strained, but I don’t want to answer just yet. I don’t think I can. I don’t think I can look out the windows, either. If I do, I’ll see them below in distress. Maybe I should look anyway.

I see. I see a sea of frantic loved ones looking for me, but amidst all of that is my father, standing calmly by the grove of pine trees at the edge of the church’s property looking up at me.

I have to go back down there and face August. But first, I’m going to sit up here and imagine that I’m in the backseat of my father’s car again.