g r a v e l

My son claims that he is somebody now that he is marrying into wealth. The bride’s family pays
for my trip to their Napa Valley home, where good fences, manicured and surrounded by snapdragons, are still fences.  At rehearsal they serve the opposite of what I ordered for the reception. The salmon skin, burnt and curling, reminds me why I checked the box marked chicken. His mother-to-be hands me a whiskey glass full of frozen paradise apple flowers. She tells me that the petals contain cyanide precursors and can only be consumed in moderation. I compare her to the flower. She does not laugh. My son leads me away from the table, pleading in polished whispers for me to stop darkening his crimson. I take this moment alone to offer him an
early wedding gift. He opens the box and feels the worn fabric. I ask him to try it on. But my son claims that the somebody he is now won’t fit into his father’s old suit.