Word Count: 342
I expected a parade marching down Main Street. I foresaw a band of pretend Indians, or what looked like them, with bright feather headdresses and trombones and a big fat tuba in step with the drum. I expected at least a balloon.
Lord knows there was much mumbling and snide asides after I hit thirty and was still a single woman without a steady Saturday night man. I learned to be flippant with phrases that I served out as volleys and smugly walked straight-backed away. But as soon as I was by myself my shoulders rounded into a sad hunch, my legs crossed in protection, my fingers found comfort in twisting my hair. They were right; I was unwanted. I was the last picked for the team. I was the kid nobody called for midnight movies and sharing a bucket of popcorn.
But I’m getting married! Where’s my mother’s relieved smile? My Aunt Gelda’s eaten words? My small string of less-than-committed past lovers wringing their hands in dismay? Of course mother and Aunt Gelda don’t know about them. They really weren’t relationships to herald. I don’t think I even told the girls in work their real names. Just sort of ran one into another like a chain link necklace so all together they made up a continuous year.
Then Tim came along. Tim of the grey suits and striped ties and straight blonde hair. Oh, but his eyes, his eyes were the greyest of all and shot through with hazel that melted my heart. He’s not a great talker but he listens, he listens so well. He laughs easily, a quiet chuckle that’s a candle rather than the bonfire of boisterous fun. He likes country music, the old caterwauling Hank Williams kind, just like me. And he thinks I’m the most beautiful woman in the world.
So where is the celebration, the hurrahs and the yays? I wonder and yet if I listen to the beat of my heart I hear the thump of a thousand feet marching instead.
