Sarah Plimpton
DAY OF THE WEDDING
Robins' voices call incessantly, ricocheting loudly off the
house, interrupted only when they fly scolding to another perch,
their call then echoing in a different manner. The window bangs
in the wind which whips the curtains straight out into the room and
the plastic tips on the strings for the venetian blinds hit against the
wall in an insistent tap tap; a low rumble of thunder rises behind
the robins' cries quenching them for a few seconds and drops of
rain fall onto the glass. I get up and look out at the dark clouds
bulging above the trees. The boughs sway drunkenly; the leaves
pulling at their stems, their white bellies reflecting the glare before
the storm.
The lights dim continually during breakfast, nobody says any–
thing, the coffee is strong, burning away cells on its way down.
An
artery beats on one side of the head, pulsing between skin and bone
and I eat one piece of toast after another dissolving raspberry jam
into the hot butter.
An
enormous bang of thunder, a simultaneous
illumination of the room, bright white, causing us to look up at
each other in a surprised fashion, finishes the lights. I get some
candles to brighten the morning darkness, pausing to stare out across
the meadow at the rain which is approaching in curtains swept by
the wind horizontally. John goes upstairs to close the windows. I
find a yellow slicker in a closet and walk through the kitchen smiling
at the large cook who is sticking one clove after another into a
ham, humming, and then cross the yard to my car. I get the Sun–
day paper out of the store just before the rain hits and drive back
to the house along the sea watching the breakers crash against the
breakwater and a flock of herons flying upwind over the marshes
