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Sitting alone at the back of the church, I realized my appetite for the day needed a boost. This tux and all its paraphernalia aggravated me. A tie and vest, suspenders, and a dinner jacket, with a doily, handkerchief, or whatever in the front pocket, all added to my discomfort. Crap, it’s August and anything more than jean shorts and a pullover is unnecessary, even for my youngest daughter’s wedding.
I’m watching photos of her and my almost official new son-in-law. The sequenced pictures flash across the screen, from their respective childhoods to engagement photos. I watch the panorama, alone with my thoughts. Twenty-plus years ago her mother and I separated, and later divorced; thus my daily contact with our children ceased, for a time. As a result, I’ve never seen many of the pictures of her.
Two times I watched the photogenic succession unfold before me, and, along with a welling tear or twenty, sampled the succulent memories that her grade school photos evoked. Afterwards, I blinked, leaned back and stretched out my arms, to spur my return to reality. While doing so, I scrutinized the wedding entourage at the front of the church. They saturated the space between the first pew and the lectern, with humanity. The homing devices below my eyebrows rested on my other three daughters and son, who were huddled in that saturated space.
Her sisters had that “I can’t bear it” look. I noticed earlier that it began with their calves, which were taut from wearing long and spindly high-heeled shoes. Now, the culture of distress wandered above their waists, where it seemed like every third move they made included pulling up the top of their strapless gowns. Who knows, maybe the tops threatened to slip and expose a breast or two; I don’t know. Nevertheless, whether the problem is not enough breast or too much gown, it’s beyond me, but I’m not going to ask. Some things it’s best to not verbally regurgitate.
In addition, my son appeared uncomfortable in his tux, which is good because misery loves company. In silence, I thanked the Lord for the five morsels of joy He gave the mother of my children and I.
I decided to join them, when movement in that area caught my attention. I looked up, and my eyes captured the substance of a scrumptious delicacy that would bring a sensitive seasoning to any buffet. Yes, the one my children call Mom joined the group. I watched as she shared with them, maybe passing tidbits of mutual interest about the day. Her quintessence joy wafted a wave of emotion that floated to the back of the church, and enveloped me.
I looked at her, as a connoisseur contemplates a palate, and wondered... No, it’s best I don't follow that inclination. Nonetheless, the needed boost to my appetite made her appearance.
Our marriage is the greatest failure in my life, and I am to blame for its demise. However, over the years, neither of us remarried, and we’ve remained friendly. My question is that even though the main course dried out, from lack of attention; does that mean taste buds dry out too?
If only she’d let me dine at her table.
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