The Wedding. And a poem.

You get a two for one, today!

My next writing retreat piece was another complete surprise.  I had no intention of writing something that turned out sad.  I tend to write happy fluff.  Our task for the afternoon was to wander around the inn and the lake.  Find a quiet spot to contemplate and be inspired.  Write whatever came to mind.  Draw your writing from your environment.

Missy and I wandered across the road from the inn to another part of the property, a newly built building that contained a meeting center, surrounded by a group of buildings containing extra rooms for the hotel.  It looked like it was set up to hold either conferences or weddings.  The landscaping was impeccable and beautiful and there was an obvious spot for a wedding ceremony, complete with the wedding arch at the back of the perfectly trimmed lawn.

We sat on the rocking chairs conveniently nestled on the porch.  It was quiet, because it looked like these buildings had just been built, but were not in use.  We were alone, listening to the quiet of the wind in the surrounding trees and the faint tinkle of water from a fountain at the end of the building.  It was peaceful.

Missy wandered around taking pictures before settling down to write in her journal.  I contemplated the spot set aside for wedding ceremonies and a story formed.  It started out sad.  I imagined a bride being left at the altar.  Why?  I’m not sure.  But in a twist, I think I made it even sadder at the end.  Please read and let me know your thoughts.

The Wedding

“So cliche,” I thought, poking my toe in the perfectly manicured green grass.  I had abandoned my shoes.  Gladly, too, as they pinched the heel of my left foot and started a blister under my right middle toe. 

I wondered what made this grass so green.  Fertilizer?  Mulch?  The feces of cows bought from a neighboring farm, tilled into the soil and decomposing to blend rich nutrients for the roots to feed.  But green.  So green.  Blinding in way that had nothing to do with the sun.

No, wait.  The blinding effect emanated from the shine of white at the other end of the runner.  A prim little pergola.  Or archway?  Is that what they call it?  Walk through the arch to your new life?  It’s also white.  So much white.  It did create a nice contrast to the green.  And the blue.  The blue blue blueness of the sky.  So perfect.  Everything perfect.  Just how I wanted it. 

The chairs were white too.  Fifty on each side of the runner.  Lined up neatly, perfect.  With bows on the inner chairs.  Also white.  Because that’s what weddings were, right?  White for purity.  White for chastity.  White to show the groom that yes, his bride was an untouched maiden sacrificing her virginity only for him.

I snorted.  Yeah right.  That had been sacrificed long ago, three men and one woman before Tom.  Purity.  An outdated concept in this modern world.  Probably outdated even in 1700.  Sex was universal, no matter the century.

I wonder if that’s why I chose red.  The contrast color.  Red for the vests.  Red for the ugly dresses for my friends because I couldn’t have them outshine me.  Red for the flowers.  The same flowers clutched between my cramped fingers.  How long have I held these?  The once pristine stems were broken and mangled, my perfect French manicured nails catching in the fibrous strands of the roses.  Roses.  Red roses for love triumphant.  Love passionate. 

I now wonder should I have chosen white roses to match the rest of this sham.  Didn’t they mean love dead? 

No, I chose red for the excitement that I felt at marrying the love of my life.  For the passion I still felt in spite of the cheating.  The breaking up and making up.  The harsh words.  It would be ok.  It would be.  Everyone assured me.  He’s changed.  He loves you.  You will be good together.  You will be perfect together.

A touch on the shoulder.  The cold fingers of my mother on my bare skin.  A shiver that had nothing to do with the weather.  No the weather was perfect.  Just how I wanted it to be.

“You should be inside.  People will arrive soon,” she said.  I looked up at her, hyper-focused on her lips.  So red.  So perfect.  Mother always looked her best with her perfect makeup and her perfect hair.  Her perfect husband.  Her perfect daughter.  And soon a perfect son-in-law. 

Her painted smile encouraged me to stand and she held out those hated perfectly white shoes to me.  “Don’t forget these.”

I smiled back and thanked her as I took them.  They felt so heavy, though they weighed nothing.

“Such a beautiful day,” she said as she led me back to my waiting friends.

“Yes,” I agreed.  “It’s perfect.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After we wrote across the street, we wandered back to our building, where we sat on that porch and admired the landscaping. Birds, a squirrel, curious bees, and butterflies flittered around us. Missy kept commenting on the hostas, which were hugely splendid and showing off their bigness. The creatures dancing among them certainly seemed to think so.

I’m not a poet. I certainly don’t think along those lines, not in the brilliant way that Missy can make words sing on a page. For some reason, however, I thought I could attempt one. Nature inspired me, as it has inspired countless poets throughout the centuries. Though I think this poem is terrible, and I ended up not sharing it with the group as I read the wedding story instead, in full disclosure I share it with you.

Playing

Beat one, beat two, gentle wings
Hop one, hop two, flowers swing

Brush once, brush twice, hostas dance
Look once, look twice, a nervous glance

Skip one, skip two, chasing a nut
Dash one, dash two, hide in a rut

Buzz once, buzz twice, a nectar dip
Sip once, sip twice, a honey trip