My daughter’s getting married. She is thirty-two and beautiful. I remember—it seems like just the other day—when she was sprawled and breathless. There she was, flat on her back, covered by pink panda pajamas, the odor of sleep drenched in her pillow. Today she is a young woman, and one whom I am proud of; she’s doing work at Rutgers University, the kind of work her deceased father did, as a researcher. The groom, Mark, does the same kind of work, which is lovely since they can travel together to conferences.
I am hoping they can find a nice conference in Hawaii right around June; it would be perfect for the honeymoon. I see her now—her long, auburn hair piled sky-high on top of her head, the lilies streaming down the piles of lace on her long, white gown and taffeta—oh, and such beautiful taffeta.
A gust of wind comes from nowhere and blows the window open—a poltergeist, perhaps, here to disturb my reverie. I imagine Mark in his black tux with a blood-red tie. Who will be his best man? Who will be her maid of honor? Deidre was named for my dead father, Dave, whose funeral I never got to attend. I wanted to, but I had the flu, and I didn’t want to give it to my nieces and nephews. I’ve always loved children. I’ll make a fine grandmother!
And what about the mother of the bride? Of course, the color of the dress I wear will depend on Deidre and Mark’s color scheme. I will suggest pastels to her, since I look so good in pastels with my bronzed complexion. Deidre isn’t often open to my suggestions; she often says, “Mom” with a huff and a puff, as some of the young girls do. How Deidre got that pale skin—the slightest touch of the outdoors will burn her—I’ll never know. Her father was bronzed like me. People always said we made a handsome couple. No one is left from our small circle of friends and relatives to bear witness to the love we once had. Only a photograph of Joseph and me as a young
