You pull up the zipper on your faded, blue sweatshirt and cross your arms.
You aren't cold exactly,
In fact, it's unseasonably warm.
You sway from side to side and kick your legs up in a runners stretch.
You're not anxious,
In fact, you're the calmest you've been in
(What I estimate to be) your twenty-three to thirty-one years (roughly).
You look at the man in front of you.
He's wearing an expression I'd call worriedly optimistic,
You're probably adding grays to his already salt and pepper hair
(Mostly salt)
With all this suspense.
You open your mouth for the seventh time.
Still, as if there's a lack of words (or possibly too many),
Nothing is said.
There is something in this silence.
I stand inside it, feeling not the cold nor the thickness I'd expected.
No.
This is tear-stained t-shirts and home-made cookies.
This is first dates and a true, unwavering love for black coffee.
This is something.
I am in this moment, not with you,
But around you.
A snow-globe world.
I supposed I'd be the snow.
Softly touching all the elements,
But not part of the picture.
You set a hand
(Which, the ladies in the audience have recently noticed looks strong and capable)
On the table,
Stabilizing yourself on the dark, weathered oak.
The man,
Who, by now, we
(The wide-eyed, salty fingered onlookers)
Should know is your father,
Gives an encouraging smile and covers your hand with his own.
I know what's supposed to happen here.
We all do.
You say, in a hushed tone
(I lean forward, face bathed in blueish light)
"I love her, Dad."
Neither your father nor the rest of us are suprised.
We stand there silently,
In the kitchen (granite counter-tops, hard-wood floors, wide windows)
Of your surprisingly large (for an office assistant) two bedroom house,
Which we've been told you can afford
(I'm not convinced)
And just when it feels it's been too long, too quiet.
Your father clasps a your arm
(His plaid shirt quite similar to yours)
And lets out a long, loud whistle
Followed by an even louder (floor rumbling, lumberjack-esque) laugh.
When the lights go up,
I can't help but feel a little sad.
Your wedding was beautiful, by the way,
All lace trimmings and softly glowing lights.
I gather my things, and step out into the night-time air,
Which, (I can't help but notice) seems unseasonably warm.
