by PJ Colando
June. Love is in the air, weddings are scheduled, and families will convene.
It won’t officially be summer, yet it will be hot, hot, hot in the Midwest, where my husband and I are traveling from California to attend a wedding.
A dear nephew and his longtime girlfriend—young, glamorous, and mature—will be married this month. To see them together is to renew hope in life on earth, their communication so clear and true as to affirm that people can listen and be united.
But, the groom’s mother and the groom’s bride do not speak and haven’t in months. There is no air in the banners, the balloons, the bridal bouquet this ceremony should fly. It’s June, and social angst clouds the atmosphere.
Don’t ask me why the two women don’t speak. Won’t speak, despite the probable intervention of many. We live thousands of miles away and aren’t part of the local milieu, the daily grind. If I must opine, I’d venture that the our nephew is marrying a young woman highly similar to his mother – that is, controlling, perfectionistic, and pridefully right.
My husband, the former sales-and-marketing exec, has assertively but gently attempted to herd the cats, corral the bulls, and harness the egos to yield to the hearts. The local mothers, sisters, cousins, and priests may have tried, too. I don’t know.
Me, I’m wearing my writer hat. My mind will voyeur as the secretary of life that it is, on constant recorder mode, though there’ll be no video to post to TMZ.
The scene is set, the characters are in place, and the conflict is more than rife. Emotions are virulently on display. There are numerous themes, probably all available to us writers, which may emerge.
The situations are clear and the actions will be spread across several days. The action and dialogue could be explosive.
The story could evolve/devolve in many ways. Resolution occurs, no matter what.
I’m unwilling to conjecture, but I will write this one out. The remoteness of a journalist will be my armor. I’ll be the best-dressed woman in the room.
I plan to eat cake—and lots of it— to help me keep my mouth shut. My survival strategy relies on the phrase that has pulled me through many an uproar: this will make a great story later.
P.S. A caveat, please. Do not tweet this. I’m too young to die – and not for this cause. I’m innocent—and, even if I’m guilty, I’m innocent.
I have a return ticket home and a short story to write.
PJ Colando writes women’s fiction with preposterous plots and lively characters swirled amidst issues of social angst: entitlement, fracking, and medical marijuana use, though not piss-and-vinegar politics. She formerly called writing her elegant hobby—a premise that must be abandoned because she earned a fiction award at the recent Southern California Writers Conference. Join her on her Boomer humor blog on her author site: http://www.pjcolando.com
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