I am drinking decaf tea out of a mug
that says, Will you be my maid of honor?
It came unexpectedly yesterday afternoon,
responsibly nestled in an Amazon box,
with a note from my brother's fiancée. It was
a complete surprise. I didn't expect to be
in the bridal party at all, I hardly know her,
but she knows what I mean to my brother,
and we are going to be sisters.
When my brother was born, I was disappointed
that he wasn't a girl. But he is giving me a new sister.
This afternoon I used the mug for the first time,
finishing off last season's pumpkin spice coffee
that my Dad had carefully labelled in a peanut butter jar.
He measured out the grounds into his French press,
I sniffed the past-date cream.
We practiced alchemy in our steaming mugs:
the perfect balance of fat and sweetness,
to our taste. We toasted. And we talked,
in the leisurely way you do when having coffee.
We talked about a lot today. At lunch,
we talked about rape culture, the blame put on victims,
the way I've found it difficult to speak up
or blow the whistle when I've been harassed.
I didn't tell my Dad particulars. I didn't
tell him how I gave away my favorite green dress
because too many men made comments, and one was suggestive.
I wanted to be a virtuous woman, not an object.
A maid of honor. I was comforted to see
that even though my Dad could not relate, he cared.
He didn't invalidate. I was safe.
I thought I might say more another time.
He just knocked and came in to say goodnight,
and to show me something he found in the cupboard:
a packet with a pot's worth
of pumpkin spice coffee.
He said Mom will join us next time.
that says, Will you be my maid of honor?
It came unexpectedly yesterday afternoon,
responsibly nestled in an Amazon box,
with a note from my brother's fiancée. It was
a complete surprise. I didn't expect to be
in the bridal party at all, I hardly know her,
but she knows what I mean to my brother,
and we are going to be sisters.
When my brother was born, I was disappointed
that he wasn't a girl. But he is giving me a new sister.
This afternoon I used the mug for the first time,
finishing off last season's pumpkin spice coffee
that my Dad had carefully labelled in a peanut butter jar.
He measured out the grounds into his French press,
I sniffed the past-date cream.
We practiced alchemy in our steaming mugs:
the perfect balance of fat and sweetness,
to our taste. We toasted. And we talked,
in the leisurely way you do when having coffee.
We talked about a lot today. At lunch,
we talked about rape culture, the blame put on victims,
the way I've found it difficult to speak up
or blow the whistle when I've been harassed.
I didn't tell my Dad particulars. I didn't
tell him how I gave away my favorite green dress
because too many men made comments, and one was suggestive.
I wanted to be a virtuous woman, not an object.
A maid of honor. I was comforted to see
that even though my Dad could not relate, he cared.
He didn't invalidate. I was safe.
I thought I might say more another time.
He just knocked and came in to say goodnight,
and to show me something he found in the cupboard:
a packet with a pot's worth
of pumpkin spice coffee.
He said Mom will join us next time.
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