“Will you be there? It would be so incredible if you could come!” I won’t be there. “I’ve missed seeing you, your smile. This will be so special, I really hope you can make it.” I cannot.
It is a bridal shower for Emily, a poet I know. She’s a better poet than I am and so I dislike her. Her poems have more texture, she talks about tendons and tangible pain and it infuriates me. I buy her a gift. I wrap it myself. And then I put it in my bookcase and stay home and never call. I just never show up for the party of four female poets to celebrate Emily’s engagement.
And then she gets married in Oregon at a farm with ribboned bouquets and she’s exquisite.
And I keep the gift, the book I bought for her.
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