Okay, this late I would still be up,
But, instead of wrestling
With glitchy digital imagery,
I should be pressing my best suit,
Polishing my boots,
Mapping out the route,
And thinking about writing something
That sings,
Something to scribble in the card
I’d have actually bought for you:
Suitably cinematic,
Something classic,
Ecclesiastically neutral enough
For every element of our
Intricately mixed family.
It’s a pity.
Instead, I am staring at something
Egregiously metatextual,
Feeling a little sick,
Knowing that, instead of
Getting your speech ready,
Checking everything is spruce,
You are at home after
Another day on the front line,
Wired-up, visor down,
Smiling.
Always smiling.
This is irksome.
I was looking forward to meeting her,
Discreetly wiping tears
At your vows,
Prepped to be wowed
At your joint elegance.
And, let’s be honest,
I was looking forward to the dancing,
Chancing my arm that
My dad
And your dad
Would be spectacularly,
Magnificently
Terpsichorean,
Giving the lie, as always
To the term “dad dancing”,
Even this far into retirement.
It’s a shame.
I’m at that age where
Weddings are few and far between
A staple of my mid-twenties,
Stretching to civil ceremonies,
Later weddings for friends who’d
Waited for equality
Properly locked tight,
My eyes welling in pride.
I spent many years singing
At strangers’ ceremonies,
Laying bets on the obvious choices
And secretly hip-deep in love
With every gaudy minute.
I was giddy with anticipation:
How would your aesthetics,
Endless kindness,
And sly, bold humour
Shine through?
It’s vexing.
I was expecting to
Spend many hours
With my little sister,
Blistering the air with our laughter,
Parting with loving reluctance,
Savouring the touch of hands
That would carry us through
Another season of distance.
There would have been so many hugs,
And dear stars above,
But I thirst with every element
For the gentle blessing of physical embrace.
While you, braced for the next
Emergence, and the next,
Patiently wait on patients,
And the reopening of gates,
Laying safety on the line
Every. Bloody. Day.
And this self-indulgent screed
Is my only way to say:
Thank you.
And I miss you.
And how the actual poem
I write for your actual wedding
Is going to be much better
For the wait.
Stay safe.
Fay x
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| Image from Boho Weddings (yes, really); photographer Marianne Chua. It honestly looked like a lush wedding! |
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