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Wedding - Dylan Thomas Pastiche

posted Feb 25, 2016, 4:31 AM by Noa Shmueli
The glaring lights, in the flashing darkness, the reflections of the tuxedoed strangers that, apparently, were my family’s blood and flesh. The pencilled eyes that looked at the children, the raised eyebrow of ‘Whose kid is that?’ … the endless photographs, snapping at the victims with a flash. Then it was I, the helpless girl in a stiff dress, patterned with ridiculous rosebuds … and the bride is hugging me, and all around me I’m hearing crooning voices, ‘Look how good she is with children’ … ‘(and a sigh) maybe she will be a mother soon, as well!’, but I feel her manicured fingernails digging into my shivering spine and the sidelong whisper, ‘Okay, go! We don’t have all day for you’ And the groom is muttering because a third cousin once removed is wearing the same shirt. And there is the grown up smell of wine, and the spring-evening smell of allergy from the cut grass, and the sticky smell of alcoholic sweat … and I cannot but think that this is not a holy thing, but the priest at the altar does not seem concerned. Perhaps it is just my imagination.
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