06 February 2010
I can imagine their wedding dance. My mom in her starched,
lacey-white, matrimonial cowboy hat and my dad keeping
a beat with only the occasional squat and sway of his gray,
tuxed hips. And while they maybe two-stepped to a little John Denver,
a corsaged Aunt Kathy held post at the guestbook - the one with the
enormous plumed pen that ran out of ink somewhere between
Great Uncle Leonard and a surname of Lundgren.
Did someone scratch my name down in those gray, embossed pages?
I was there, too. I was there humming along to “Country Roads”
and feeling the waltzing chafe of Grandpa Shermer’s midsection
as he shuffled through a dollar’s worth of dance.
Between twirls and dips on chipped, church linoleum and
niceties with the horn-rimmed organist, I, too blushed at the
joke repertoire coming from Uncle George and
other schnockered uncles circling near the cake. Preludes of
“a guy walks into a bar” and “one man says to another man”
were met with slaps on suited knees, a swallow of Grain Belt and
bites of marble cake smothered in white-ish frosting.
And with each punch line, I made myself more at home in the first trimester.
I hope Mom sipped a Grain Belt that night.
I hope her dress was cinched tight around her waist.
I hope that they had no idea I was there, hiding
somewhere between her bladder and spleen, already
developing a taste for dancing around in dresses.