SMILING BUCKETS
He loves me. He loves me not. The last petals from my small bouquet of white shasta daisies lie at my feet. I stand on one foot, then the other behind the still closed synagogue door waiting for Shelley. My parents are running around like lunatics. Bess, our Maid of Honor, paces, barely opens the door to the decorated pews. Quiet fear races thru our parents who are as bewildered as I am.
Cell phones ring. Guests snap photos. Heads turn to the chapel's main entrance. My father, meaning well, looks up to the balcony, nods for the three violinists to play. They start with the always tear jerking melody, 'Is this the little girl I carried.' My Aunt Sophie hurries up the stairs. All eyes are on her as she motions to the group to stop playing that song. Even from the pews one can read her lips, 'play different songs.' I, surely the most worried, try to look calm, at ease, but inside I am a shivering nut case.
The guests are restless. I can understand how male relatives, close friends just want to get home in time to watch the bulls run at Paploma
or take off their shoes, put their feet on the hassock, and grab a few winks. Most likely before the hour is up and Shelley still isn't by my side, those guys will do just that....leave. Aunt Dorothy, my absolutely prettiest aunt, is fading. I nudge her, tell her one eye lash is coming off and I can feel her crawl in embarrassment.
or take off their shoes, put their feet on the hassock, and grab a few winks. Most likely before the hour is up and Shelley still isn't by my side, those guys will do just that....leave. Aunt Dorothy, my absolutely prettiest aunt, is fading. I nudge her, tell her one eye lash is coming off and I can feel her crawl in embarrassment.
'Dad, please, please, talk to somebody, get some hors deuevres, cocktails served. Tell, don't ask, Stanley to gather his drinking band, and wake up everyone. Rabbi Lender walks down the flowered aisle to the Bima and starts to tell jokes. I? I hide. I cry. My make-up is a running mess. Upset, sympathetic Mom sits me down and cries with me.
Cell phones continue to ring. My father calls the police, reports Shelley missing, is told there is nothing they can do for 24 hours.
Sirens wail. I can't tell if they come from police cars or ambulances. My nerves jangle. Thoughts of my husband-to-be lying in a pool of blood, shot dead by a sniper, makes me want to just lie down beside him and drown in his redness. My breathing is irregular.
Sirens wail. I can't tell if they come from police cars or ambulances. My nerves jangle. Thoughts of my husband-to-be lying in a pool of blood, shot dead by a sniper, makes me want to just lie down beside him and drown in his redness. My breathing is irregular.
Chills shake my body, shake it again and again. I scream and turn over. My mom is standing beside my bed, shaking me, waking me. Her voice sounds far away. 'Wake up, Sleepyhead. We have a lot to do this morning.
The sun is shining.'
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