the boiling teapot brought back memories
arm in hand they’d walked down the aisle
best man and bridesmaid of best friends
it had all started at the rehearsal dinner
when he arrived late and flustered
though she’d been on time, awaiting
her mascara was on before his coat
yet she’d had to wait up for him to suit up
couldn’t bear to see him in the face, anger
brimming on the surface, so threatening
she glanced aside to set her mind at ease
for tardiness was as good as neediness
a cup of tea she’d had as she waited
the boiling teapot jerked her to reality
sitting at home, the mighty housewife
cleaning, washing, washing, and cleaning
everyday household chores multiplying
she’d woken up early that morning
way before he’d even stifled a yawn
yet she stayed in bed for him to rise
for her beloved had to dress, to work
man of the house he was breadwinner,
and she bread maker, just a part-timer
she had much time, she needn’t rush
wasn’t like she had a wedding to blush
perhaps first, she’d have a cup of tea
The whole world was gearing up. It was, after all, their Royal wedding. Excitement bubbled on every surface of the streets, for murmurs of rumours had spread like wildfire already. Babbling crowds lingered, in vegetable markets and liquor stores, wondering, guessing the colour of the dresses, the types of flowers, the length of the veil, and—the designer who made all possible.
The family’s feverish mirth was only too obvious, and even the bride was getting along fine.
But he struggled.
Millions of eyes would observe him throughout the ceremony. The pastor had never been more nervous in his life.
A drunken night it’d been.
Not too long after the wedding, they’d argued, saying things they didn’t mean.
Storming out, he’d stopped at the local bar.
The bartender had been understanding. Pouring his favourite drink, she’d listened all night as he whined. So kind, she’d even offered him her room in the hotel above the bar. He’d been too drunk to drive and sad to go home.
She’d been asleep when he left the following morning. He’d agonised himself before realising his love for his wife.
Regret and a glimmer of lie sustained his marriage.
Until death did them part.
Bright and beautiful, her mother’s dress flowed around her ankles. Creaseless and ironed twice, it was the perfect addition to her marital glow.
Radiating all kinds of happiness, Bess walked down the aisle, her arm locked in mine. In health and in sickness, I’d stood by her side, supporting her throughout to achieve her dreams and assure her desires—just as I’d vowed.
For twenty-seven years we relied on each other, for breakfast and warm clothes to a shoulder to cry on over heartbreaks and breakups. None other came between us—for I am hers, and she mine.
as the twins for a mother