Photograph by Debmalya Roy Choudhuri
After Our Daughter’s Wedding
by Ellen Bass
While the remnants of cakeand half-empty champagne glasseslay on the lawn like sunbathers lingeringin the slanting light, we left the house guestsand drove to Antonelli’s pond.On a log by the bank I sat in my flowered dress and cried.A lone fisherman drifted by, casting his ribbon of light.“Do you feel like you’ve given her away?” you asked.But no, it was that she made itto here, that she didn’tdrown in a well or dieof pneumonia or take the pills.She wasn’t crushedunder the mammoth wheels of a semion highway 17, wasn’t foundlying in the alleythat night after rehearsalwhen I got the time wrong.It’s animal. The eggnot eaten by a weasel. Turtlescrossing the beach, exposedin the moonlight. And wehave so few to start with.And that long gestation—like carrying your soul out in front of you.All those years of feedingand watching. The vulnerable hollowat the back of the neck. Never knowingwhat could pick them off—a seagullswooping down for a clam.Our most basic imperative:for them to survive.And there’s never been a moment
we could count on it.