Days, weeks, months and years she goes about not hearing from her groom, but still, she does not worry. The show must go on. Third and fourth cousins on her mother’s side hang flowers on grosgrain ribbons stuck into the ceiling with T-pins. It’s the latest rage: a floating horticultural ecology. The large headed flowers resembling cruciferous vegetables are heavy, but still slightly sway in the air-conditioned air, as though they were in a dream. A stiff-backed woman wearing a brocade dress with epaulettes keeps her hands poised over the old Wurlitzer chipped ivory keys, ready to bust out a groove when given the signal by the one-eyed usher. Orange and green sherbert sit like icebergs in cold Hawaiian Punch, to be served in decorative thimbles, which will be given to the bride to aid her in the fashioning of a life after marriage, stitch by lonely stitch. Guests begin to arrive, and in lieu of gifts, many carry in a heavy grudge or two. They pile onto the groom's side and begin placing bets. The bride wears nothing but old-fashioned underwear and coyly, like the coquette she always dreamed of being, waves and blows kisses. Save it for your husband, one woman growls, and the women, pleased with themselves, titter behind their gloved hands. It’s a waiting game. Some need more time to make up their minds. Others are willing to live in suspended moments for so little return on their investment. The clock ticks a rhythm, that the old man by the door, in his dusty tuxedo, taps his toe to. A note is played on the piano and then another. The joint starts jumpin’. The bride wriggles in her old-fashioned underwear. More than a few, with good reason, hold their breath.
Michelle Reale teaches poetry in Arcadia University's Low-Residency program. She is the author of several collections of poetry including the forthcoming Let it be Extravagant (Bordighera Press, 2025).
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