This morning at the Riverview Farm there was a mother and her baby daughter.
I liked her little denim dress and the way she waddled between the flower patch and apple trees.
I remember when my little hand would hold my mother’s, with nothing else to wish for.
She must have picked blueberries under the blue sky because that’s what we were there to do
and later, at the wedding, I thought I saw her and her mother
and there was a bowl of fresh blueberries next to the cupcakes.
If I could have tried them, I would have known for sure
if they had the same sour tang of my blueberry breakfast,
but I was busy bussing round wooden tables —
lighting candles and holding hors d'oeuvres and throwing away the paper plates.
I liked the guest who wore a gingham suit and the one with a long sylvan walking stick.
When they laughed at themselves because they did not know
the etiquette of running after the girl holding the tiny gourmet pizzas,
I felt like a guest at their party.
I liked the light in their eyes when they saw the buffet and said “veggies!”
because they like what’s good for them sometimes.
I gave the bride and groom extra because they needed energy
and my mother told me that you never have a moment to eat at your own wedding.
I ate all the leftover pork and potatoes I wanted as I listened
to their toasts from the corner.
The bride and the groom met because they were the only ones
at the party who wanted to go ice climbing.
Her mother said they are a Spruce and a Birch tree rooted in the same spot.
The best man went to Harvard with them and I could tell. Grandpa said a prayer.
The groom's father said If you can enjoy your time together, everything else will fall into place.
I wondered why, if it was so simple, is it so messy,
with tables to clear and spills to soak and guests to smile with nonetheless?
Why the fuck did I cry in the blueberry bushes?
Nobody said that bussing tables was easy, but there is no cutting cake without it.