Barristers in gowns stood where bridesmaids should have been.
No priest here, but a judge presiding over a ceremony
where they swore to tell the truth, the whole truth,
Not a promise for richer or for poorer.
Was it the seating arrangements?
Or the matching chair-covers, with burgundy ribbons,
Or those wretched sugar -almond favours, that no-one eats,
Or the fear, fear, fear of failure and ordinariness?
Was it the slow, seeping away of that sweet girl who said ‘yes’
into an obsessive princess,
dancing a trance of tasteful torture?
Was that what made his memory wither?
The must-haves, the pre-nuptial pamper, the weekends with the girls, the menu taster, the invitations,
the place settings, the notes, the in-laws, the out-laws for the far away table, the dress,
the undress, the bib, the tucker, the speech, the hair, the hen, the stag, the hangover.
The money.
When all he wanted was to put a ring on her finger.
And be with her.
To be with her.
And breathe.
© Jane Slavin
Jane Slavin reads, rants and writes - and is performing at Forked - Plymouth’s Apples and Snakes event on 21 November – yikes!
