Behind us, across the long expanse of lawn
our guests blow ten thousand bubbles
instead of throwing rice. They crowd, all dressed
up like paper cut out dolls, under the 1940s noir arches.
My grandmother, who due to turbulence, vomited
all the way from Milwaukee, signed the papers
with her spider hand. It’s the last time I will see her alive.
She is there, leaning against your mother who’s in her
famous lavendar gown. She stands beside your
brother in his gold oval rims who has just met
my own brother. They will become good friends.
They’ve told me no film is left in any of the cameras.
Nothing to catch this momentary waterfall
of bubbles drifting out toward the downtown city lights.
Silver blossoms that float like promises
over our heads where with each step in the new wet grass
my satin heels sink deep, stick, then release.
And the damp wing of my veil rises into wind.
And I whisper Remember this. Remember.
Because it’s all we’ll have of it, forever.
Originally published in Cider Press Review, Volume 1.