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Surreal! They don’t even call my name,
sure of the fact I’m here somewhere.
… reception location.
… reception music.
… reception food.
I don’t want to think about any
of it. I only want to think about
Bryce. Making love. And babies.
I GO TO JOIN THEM ANYWAY
Mostly because they’ll probably
come looking sooner or later.
Just as I reach the kitchen,
I hear a cork pop. Loudly.
Aunt Cora screeches. Ah!
Where’s my glass? She turns,
smiling, as I come into the room.
Guess what? We found a church.
I point to the champagne
bottle, foaming merrily down
its neck into a bubbly puddle
on the counter. “I figured.”
Want some? She glances quickly
at Grandfather, who is scribbling
notes at the table. He shrugs,
so she pours three glasses,
before I even say, “Guess so.”
I’ve had champagne a couple
of times. Always very small glasses.
I’ve never, in fact, gotten drunk.
Glasses raised all around,
