We gather in the tiny community hall to celebrate the upcoming wedding of a family friend. The air is thick and still, the space just large enough to fit all of the family, friends, and older ladies of the community. Outside, the sun was shining with only a slight breeze and I can’t help but think of all the things I’d rather be doing on this gorgeous Spring Saturday as I take my seat in the stuffy space with my sister and her son sandwiched between us.
The bride and the women in her immediate family are all seated at the front, dressed in their best, while the rest of us sit around tables, ready to shower her with gifts and well wishes for her upcoming nuptials.
After the gifts have all been opened, the appropriate amount of oohing and aahing has finished, lunch is served. Rows of cookies, bars, and crustless sandwiches are lined up on a table at the back, the smell of coffee fills the air. It’s always around this time during the event that the adults circulate and catch up while the teenagers roll their eyes and the kids pull at their parents’ clothes, roll around on the floor, or at the very least try to find something to entertain them until it’s time to go home. I can relate. This is the last place I want to be too. Of all the traditions in my small town, this is not one of my favorites. The conversation is full of forced chitchat and hollow, probing questions. Just smile, you’ll get through this, I think. I hate talking about myself, I feel more like the antsy kids than the moms that are circulating the room.
My sister gets up for a coffee refill, leaving my nephew beside me. Panic. I feel exposed. Now I’m fair game for the adults to stop and chat.
An aunt of the bride stops by and sits across from me, her teenage daughter takes a seat on my side of the table next to my nephew. I haven’t seen them for years, and I’m in awe of how grown up and beautiful the chubby, little, awkward girl I used to know has become. The small talk continues.
My nephew, who I assume is feeling bored and restless, leans over with a determined look on his face, and stretches out his tongue. He takes a long lick of the girl’s bare arm, from her elbow to as far up as he can reach. He turns to me, with a puzzled look on his face, “She doesn’t taste like chocolate…”.
My eyes are wide and my mouth drops open but nothing comes out. I can feel the heat instantly rise up from my core, burning my cheeks as they must shine red, matching the flowers at the center of each table. He gets an eye roll from the teenager as she wipes off her arm. We share an awkward laugh and a few mortified comments about what comes out of the mouths of babes then the small talk is soon moved on to another table.
Hi Katie!
I loved reading your story. I felt like I could feel the stuffy air around me from small town community halls. It’s definitely an experience I’m sure many of us are familiar with! I really liked how descriptive you were with the space, which set the scene really nicely. I certainly was not expecting that ending! I like that you touched on the race of the teenage girl without actually saying anything, which leads up to more of a surprise. I found your story really funny but definitely can see how that would have been completely embarrassing at the time. Thanks for sharing I really enjoyed reading about this moment!