Hiding

The sun has gotten a little higher in the sky. Whichever way I turn, it burns in my peripheral, unblinking as a stage light. If I put my back to it, the flapping plastic canopy pings the light back at me. I told her we should have splurged on something a little softer, like cotton.

          At the opposite end of the aisle, the mother-of-the-bride holds a phone to her ear. The drooping daffodil in her lapel stirs in the wind. Her eyes move from side to side. She taps her foot, but the grass muffles it completely. From here, with the silence and her imperceptible distress signals, I can almost imagine that she's totally calm.

          At this end of the aisle, my mother stands up a little too suddenly. She's about to say something regrettable.

          "If anyone has seen the bride, speak now!" She faces the crowd, watching as her words settle over them and drift down into the gaps between their plastic lawn chairs.

          My aunt, still seated, takes her hand and tugs gently. Casting a final look over the spectators, my mother chortles and sits down.

          The officiant clears his throat but says nothing. Without looking at him, I know he is adjusting his tie again, brushing invisible particles from his right pant leg with his palm, rocking back on his left foot and then forward.

          I can see her hiding under the table that holds the fake ice sculpture. We've been looking at each other for almost half an hour. Only time will tell which of us will break and join the other.