Suzette Changes Her Name
By Susan Maszaros

A winter sky melts gray over
field, church, graveyard.
My father and I caught in a stillness
at the doors of the church.
I am wrapped in a dress of cream gauze,
holding roses, irises, and berries.
He helps me pull my veil
over my face,
over fragile, white flowers
crowning my head.

Gently he takes my hand
and tucks it under his arm.
My fingers nestle
inside the folds of his jacket.
I can almost smell the honeysuckle
blossoms along the fence
of our old corner house.
I look up; he is smiling.
A tear caught in his left eye.

He whispers, "I love you,"
and I hold on tight.
But I just can't stop
the tears from falling
down the creases of my father's face,
through a deep well of time
that I lean into,
reaching
for the sweet nectar at the bottom.

Vapor rises from my breath
as warm tears fall to a floor,
where my blue garter sits,
unhinged and resting
around my ankle.

But there is no time before doors open,
before family and friends become
shadows bathed in candlelight.
As I attempt to step inside,
a bride,
I feel the difficulty
in lifting my head,
in leaving my name at the door.
To step out a blue garter
and feel something
slipping away behind me.

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