After Our Daughter's Wedding

After Our Daughter’s Wedding by Ellen Bass | Sunday, July 30, 2017 | The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor

While the remnants of cake

and half-empty champagne glasses

lay on the lawn like sunbathers lingering

in the slanting light, we left the house guests

and drove to Antonelli’s pond.

On a log by the bank I sat in my flowered dress and cried.

A lone fisherman drifted by, casting his ribbon of light.

“Do you feel like you’ve given her away?” you asked.

But no, it was that she made it

to here, that she didn’t

drown in a well or die

of pneumonia or take the pills.

She wasn’t crushed

under the mammoth wheels of a semi

on highway 17, wasn’t found

lying in the alley

that night after rehearsal

when I got the time wrong.

It’s animal. The egg

not eaten by a weasel. Turtles

crossing the beach, exposed

in the moonlight. And we

have so few to start with.

And that long gestation—

like carrying your soul out in front of you.

All those years of feeding

and watching. The vulnerable hollow

at the back of the neck. Never knowing

what could pick them off—a seagull

swooping down for a clam.

Our most basic imperative:

for them to survive.

And there’s never been a moment

we could count on it.