My sister is getting married! My baby sister. Sweet Pentyne. Well finally…. a wedding I want to attend! Hell, not only attend, I expect a behind the scenes role of some sort.
: that was my not so subtle hint, sweetie; ahem, did you catch that? :
The wedding will take place next year at a nice little park with ducks and swans. It was only five years ago that I was there at one of our family picnics, pregnant and stuffing fallen corn husks into empty hot dog roll bags while keeping a sharp eye out for deserted paper plates with scraps of fruit salad to go into my compost pile at home. Perhaps Pentyne will by then have a compost of her own and I could do the same for her. Because I know she won’t let me anywhere near the wedding cake; what with my nifty substituitions in the name of health. Such a shame.
I will not marry, myself; no, thank you very much. I have only one set of formal plans in place, the rest I just improvise as I go along. Someday, when I part this earth, there are orders…I mean, gentle reminders…regarding how I would like my body to be escorted out; things involving cremation, poetry, possibly bagpipes, and a quiet send-off into a moving body of water; river or ocean, I don’t care, as long as I’m NOT in some stagnant pond, contained for all eternity. Throw me into the nearest fountain if you must. I need to be sort of metaphorically moving around and going somewhere, and as long as those needs are met, I promise not to scorch the earth beneath the feet of any of my loved ones. I make no promises regarding ghostly frolics; er, visitiations, or other wierdness; I can’t possibly be expected to resist such fun if it’s available.
It surprises and somewhat amuses the kiddo’s babci that I have already thought of these things, but hey, her Polish genes have proven to live to 100 and beyond; she has time to plan. I’m not taking any chances. Any serious relationship I agree to always involves a careful segue into a discussion of these matters.
Babci giggles at me when I mention that will NOT, whatsoever, under any circumstances save for a few chosen family members, be viewed. But if she knew my 13 year old self, the one who barked orders to anyone within 50 feet of me, “stop looooooking at me!, “Don’t TOUCH me! Just Don’t!”, she wouldn’t bat an eye at my supposed wierdness. It’s ok, though, my father laughed at me too. But I haven’t changed. I’m an affectionate mama, but I’m otherwise not the touchy-feely sort. The thought of laying in some box while someone I barely knew in passing – or worse- didn’t even like, tenderly presses my hand or strokes my cheek while I’m stuck there, frozen as concrete and unable to grab them and give them the whatfor, creeps me out.
How did I even get on this?
I’ll not be going anywhere anytime soon. And this wedding is much, much more exciting. I wish my sweet Pentyne the very, very best. And I’ll try not to slip anything green, healthful, or socially conscious into the wedding favors, k? I could make you, dear one, a beautiful, elaborate paper wedding dress if you’re up for it though. Dare ya!
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