Kate's Wedding
by Peter
Wakefield Kitcher
Some weeks ago
as I stood there, perhaps at home, I don’t
know where, some random thoughts passed through
my head about a couple to be wed.
I thought, “How nice for me, to give a short
narration that folks would love some scandal that
they’d hear on this occasion.”
I’m sure that all those present here would
love to know some scandal, since at the last
wedding when I spoke, the bride went off the
handle.
I have a funny mind, you see, that started at my
mother’s knee. I was, I suppose, a little
brat, but at this time, I won’t go into that.
So Jay is OK, I have no proper knowledge. He has
a brain, I think. He probably went to college.
It was the girl named Kate, on whom I wish to
concentrate. Aha, I thought, I’ll really
make her think. As long as I remember not to have
too much to drink.
I sat me down one day and took my pen and then
began to write of Where? and When? But after
several hours my mind was bare. The bad occasions,
if they were truly there, were few and far
between and really rare.
“Oh, little Katie, isn’t she so sweet!”
You’d hear the neighbours chatting on the
street.
My darling little grandchild in my arms, and I’d
join in with everybody’s charms.
I sat there, thinking hard but nothing came. She
made so few mistakes that I could blame.
And then it came to me. There was a little time
that would enable me to close this little rhyme.
My memory’s clear. There was this little
girl. I think twixt three or four, her feet well
planted, firm upon the floor, her hands so set
upon her hips and shouting through those charming
little lips, were words I cannot say, on this,
her wedding day. My brain awhirl. “Is this
the child we’ve brought into the world?”
And then, I saw, in front of her, little Katie’s
mother, her arms akimbo, and saying words I
couldn’t understand, while I stood there, in
limbo.
So there you see the picture. Daughter, mother,
and then, to add to the drama, grandmother - my
wife. Hands on hips, all three of them in a row,
looking over each other’s shoulders, unaware
of the show.
If there’s blame to give, I really shouldn’t
bother. As you can see, her envied
characteristics were derived from me.
So, Jay, I’ll just be nice and give you my
mature advice. Yes, Jay, if you see Kate, her
arms akimbo, just grab her there and throw her
through the window.
And now, “Good Wishes, Jay,” the
luckiest of men. To Kate, “I love you,
toadly” There is no rhyme for toadly. To
both of you, the only other thing, I guess, is to
wish you “Everlasting Health” and
“Every Happiness.”
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