He sat in the groom's family pew at the front of the church. His ex-wife at one end. He at another. The ceremony was waiting for the priest to arrive, while the guests hovered at the back, jubilant to see old schoolmates now they were all grown up and looking fancy. Light shone from their faces, having shed the brittle skin of their bedraggled youthful (mis-)adventures and transformed into these full-fledged adults.
The groom's father stares ahead at the empty altar. The slab of marble; a woven cloth lies across its length.
The bible closed on its metal podium. The crucifix hangs between two stain glass window.
He avoids looking at his son surrounded by his university friends, chatting about last night's game, or the hiking trip they are planning to take next year in Scotland, or could the groom be actually talking about how nervous he is and how happy he is that they
are all there. The father turns his gaze back to altar. Wondering whether the closed bible is a metaphor for this moment of estrangement.
are all there. The father turns his gaze back to altar. Wondering whether the closed bible is a metaphor for this moment of estrangement.
He might have received an invitation to attend the wedding, but he wasn't a part of the celebration.
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