by Christine Adams Beckett
“It’s my marry ‘em and bury ‘em suit,” he replied dryly
to the earnest woman seated opposite us. She was sipping a beer
from an amber-colored bottle when his quip motivated her
to smirk through her compliment, wrist to her lips, and cough the reply:
“Well, l’chiem! to that…” and took a more leisurely, feminine gulp.
I looked down at my own repeat appearance, a black crepe shift
that ably held me during my own celebrations. I made the requisite
calculations in my head: thirty years of cocktails,
a little snug for that first post partum evening out,
a bit loose for the memorial of a life-long friend whose loss
made us all appreciate our own longevity. We were gifted
more time to savor this world in slow, savory bites.
With wisdom, we are left to feel unexpected joy for our daughters
who complain, wrapped in a towel in front of their closets,
that they haven’t a thing to wear.