The invitation arrived folded in half, its edges soft from being passed hand to hand. When I opened it, hand-drawn wedding bells and butterflies spilled across the page in colored pencil. And I realized I had a more urgent problem than any bride does: Who was I bringing as my plus-one?
I am 50-something, single, incarcerated, and apparently still susceptible to the same pre-wedding panic as any person on the outside. I laid out two photographs on my bunk. One was Mr. October, all cheekbones and abs, the kind of date you bring to be looked at. The other was Lenny Kravitz, mid-laugh, guitar slung low. I chose fun over decoration. “Lenny,” I said out loud in my empty cell, “it’s me and you.” I folded Mr. October back into my locker and felt, absurdly, ready.
In here, where intimacy with another person can get you written up, I’m calling all of the people involved by a pseudonym. Dar — 5 feet of pure momentum, hair bleached blond with Efferdent because that is what you use when Clairol isn’t an option — made the wedding possible. Before she started planning the weddings in here, nuptials were just a rumor. Someone would mention that a couple had “made a commitment,” and we’d nod, say congratulations, and move on. Dar turned rumors into ceremonies.
In her hometown, before prison, Dar was the person you called when you needed a memorable ceremony. When I asked her why she takes on the risk in here, her eyes filled before her voice cracked. She said she designed weddings for half the brides in her town — daughters of everyone except her own because they were children when she was convicted. Now, they’re adults, and she missed theirs. So she plans ours, some of it grief wearing the costume of generosity. It is the only joy she has left to give.
On the day of the wedding, I found a seat on the rec yard. Cup was already sitting and unfolding her own plus-one from a creased glossy magazine page: Cardi B. I showed her mine of Lenny. She laughed, relieved I hadn’t brought Mr. October, since another guest, Lea, had already claimed him. Gi had Ariana Grande tucked in her waistband. Ms. Retta rolled past on her walker with Justin Bieber held up like a fan, daring anyone to mention the 40-year age gap.
Van unrolled hers and it was Trump! The whole group went quiet before bursting out with laughter. Van, straight-faced, reminded us she was working on a mass pardon.
Reb, the swastika on her neck faded to a bruised blue with age, got everyone riled up too, though not for the tattoo. Her plus-one was Kurt Cobain. “Can we bring dead dates?” someone shouted, half scandalized, half delighted. Then, Ms. Mae — elderly, white-haired in a wheelchair, clutching a photo of Willie Nelson — misheard and became frantic, certain someone had just told her Willie was dead.
Lu, the bride, sat on a steel table while Dar fitted a thick white cotton nightgown over her uniform, murmuring about the contraband bedazzling kit confiscated years ago. Dee, who draws better than anyone I’ve met in here or out, had covered that nightgown in colored-pencil butterflies and bells.
Dar wrapped cloth around jars of Vaseline, and fastened them to each heel of Lu’s Crocs. Voila! Heels! Sun filled in Lu’s eyebrows with a No. 2 pencil and scraped glitter off an old Christmas card onto tissue, dabbing it onto her cheekbones.
I found Smo, the groom, holding nail clippers up to his face as a mirror, despondent that he didn’t look like himself yet. Smo is a trans man, and the transition process here is slow in ways that have nothing to do with patience but everything to do with what this system will and won’t allow him to become. Sun, the makeup artist, drew a mustache and goatee on him using black eyeliner pencil. “This is your day too,” we told him. And you will look how you feel, not how they let you.
When the wedding began, Lu staggered down the aisle toward Smo in heels for what I think was the first time in her life. Four people stood beside Smo, unable to bring plus-ones of their own because they were in the wedding party. They were standing in for the people who couldn’t be there at all. La held a photo of a 5-year-old girl. J.A. held an image of a 6-year-old boy. These were the bride’s children, frozen at the ages they were the last time she saw them, over a decade ago. Smo had asked a woman, Tan, to represent his brother, and Jel held a photo of his mother. One by one they stepped forward, honored to stand in for the absent, offering their blessings on behalf of people who would never know this day happened.
This is the part that always undoes us. The sniffles start low and spread. Reb, the woman with the faded swastika on her neck, grabbed my hand and held it tight. Our eyes met. “My daughter,” she said. I nodded, a lump rising in my throat, because I recognized that particular grief. It mirrors mine. “My son,” I croaked back. These are the weddings we’ve missed, all of them locked behind our ribs. Somehow a stranger’s ceremony finds a way to open that door anyway.
I looked behind me and Cook was crying, mouthing, “My twin sister.” It seemed that everyone on that yard had lost a wedding to prison. This is why we break the rules for these ceremonies and why Dar risks a write-up every time. For a few minutes we get to grieve together instead of alone, and grief shared is somehow lighter than grief carried solo in a cell.
Before the ceremony, Dar passed out sunflower seeds instead of rice since rice hurts the birds. We each took a handful and passed the rest down the line. I snuck one seed into my mouth, then another.
“Get ready to throw these the second Ju finishes officiating,” she whispered. She also handed out rolls of toilet tissue, since Kleenex isn’t allowed, for us — the dangerous crybabies.
To accompany the pronouncement of marriage, Wick, a trans man, let out a piercing whistle. I thought what I always think when I hear him do that: Add “learn to whistle” to my bucket list. We all stood, clapping, but not one of us threw a single sunflower seed. A furious Dar spun around, demanding to know how nobody remembered. We burst out laughing so loud the armed tower guard looked down. I still don’t know how we all ended up with the seeds in our tummies.
But I do know what happened to us. For one hot summer afternoon, a woman with a swastika tattoo sat beside a dead rock star, and a mother’s grief sat beside another mother’s grief until it was easier to carry. Somewhere outside these fences, someone is arguing over centerpieces. In here, we argued over Bieber versus Willie Nelson and cried over children we’ll likely never walk down an aisle. But Lu and Smo got married anyway, with us standing in for each other in every sense that mattered.
Kwaneta Harris is a former nurse, business owner and expat. She is now an incarcerated journalist and a 2026 Galaxy Changemaker Fellow. She also serves as a senior writer and editor for Solitary Watch and a lead adviser for The Bridge at Look2Justice. You can read more of her stories on Substack at Write or Die.