When I was seven, I was married to Michael Niccholl, a blond-haired boy in my second-grade class. It was a wedding at home, with a white dress, a blue suit, some plastic wineglasses filled with fruit punch, a turkey of sorts and a minister. I even had two bridesmaids. But before I go into more detail, I should probably explain why the wedding was even taking place, aside from the fact that we were madly in love.

I had a crush on Michael, and he liked me because I was the only one in our class who could spell his last name – Niccholl, not Nickel. He had surgery because the soft spot on his head never hardened, and wore a bike helmet whenever he was outside playing. I thought he was the be-all and end-all of seven-year-olds, and when Halloween came around, I decided to make my move.

I was a bride for Halloween, with a white dress, veil, even a bouquet – and I was itching for a husband. Michael was Robin Hood and I decided he would do just fine. After gathering our minister – a girl named Lisa who was dressed as a friar – my two bridesmaids, who were dressed as Cinderella and a princess, and our wedding meal – a boy named Scott who had dressed up like a turkey – I went in search of my husband. I found him on the monkey bars and told him we were getting married and to hurry up because if you were late to your own wedding, your bride would hate you forever. Not given a choice, he reluctantly followed me to the picnic table and the ceremony began. Unfortunately, before we had said three words, the bell rang to end recess. I decided we would finish the ceremony at my house after school; I was determined to get married.

Michael showed up on time with his groomsmen, our friends Andy and Tim. He was wearing a blue suit with a small flower on his lapel, no doubt put there by his mother. I was in my room getting ready. My babysitter gave Michael her sterling silver dolphin ring to use as a wedding band. We all walked down the aisle – also known as our hallway – and Lisa finished the ceremony. We decided it would be best if we shook hands instead of kissing. I mean, what if we got cooties or something? Afterward, we drank fruit punch from my plastic tea set and ate cookies. I changed my clothes, we went outside and played ball for a while and then Michael, Andy and Tim went home.

At the end of the school year, Michael moved to Ohio with his family. We were too young to do a very good job of keeping in touch, and I lost contact with him. It's been almost ten years since I have seen or spoken to Michael Niccholl, but I think of the wedding often. I still have the ring, and a picture of the two of us. I wonder if he ever thinks about me. I know I will probably never hear from him again, but I will never forget how to spell his name: N-I-C-C-H-O-L-L.