The Wedding Song

"See, I told you he was an Angel," the mother of groom said to her mother, the groom's Granny, nudging her mother and pointing discreetly over to the man at the mic, the bride's (her lovely new daughter-in-law's) eldest brother. Granny's eyes grew wide in response. "Oh, yes. Yes he his."

He didn't have a speech written, per say. But, he wasn't not ready.

Dream about that very moment for the past several years, he had, yes. His younger sister as dear to him as the day's sun. And here she was, getting married off, and so soon. His sister and the rest of the party had asked him plenty of times what he had prepared by way of a speech. He only smiled. Smiled and smiled and smiled and smiled. His sister, oh, she loved that.

Her other brother, the DJ for the reception, had made up a little something before and gone over it flipflap pattywack before hand. Her new brother-in-law, he had one written and saved on his iPhone, as did the Maid of Honor. But, the mysterious eldest brother, no, he hadn't written down a wink. The speech. He was the last one to go, they made it that way. He was, after all, trying to be a writer. Put him at the end of it, so he doesn't smash us all to bits. They did put him at the end. But, he didn't do any smashing. Although, something did happen. Something went down. And he hadn't one word prepared. After the brother-in-law to the new bride said his bit, the eldest brother, the writer, stood up, and a light, behushing wind gusted about all of the loose-hanging mahogany skirts of the tablecloths.

Silence. Hushed. Over the entirety of the colorful and gild-bedecked patio deckparty, the matrimonial reception, hushed a hush: silence. The bride's brother, the eldest.

At the end of his speech, the eldest brother, the writer, looked down from his dreamy forgoing. For he had wandered into the stars above for those few minutes, and ridden the plethora winks and dreams of humanity all over the silent globe, there to bequeath it transmuted to the party and their plenty: simultaneous astrallic prose. He had ad libbed the scenery of the sleeping Sahara, and gone from there. Paris streets, blue-lemony, graceful, true. Streamlined the poetic fragment of the universe into a path of words: a gift for his beloved and beautiful little sister.

A silence. The writer-brother, why, he's written a work of poetic genius. This is pure wonderment. Why, he's been working on it for months I bet. Sheer magnanimity and Grace. Betokening brilliance not seen since Botticelli. I tell you.

A silence. Then, applause. The speech concluded, the eldest brother had looked down, and, before shedding a first indulgent tear of his own, had turned to behold his beloved little sister's face, streamlined with tears heavenly, holding her two arms out-stretched and happy towards him for the hug which he was, to be sure, gentle reader, already stepping there towards.

The applause continued, died down.

The writer took his place at the table with his cousins and brothers, the party. The family. Love shone bright on all their happy faces, bequeathing their splendor beneath the beautiful half-moon's light with more beatitude than can be bought or sold, to be sure.

Nay, gentle reader. The eldest brother, the writer, thought a whole, grand lot about the speech before hand. The beauty came not from a prepared speech, but from a long longed for and anticipated emotion of Grace and Happiness, that happiness that was the happiness which he, the writer, the eldest brother, held for her, his beautiful little sister. The happiness which he would always hold for her; a happiness which was given that one moment in time in which to leave its sincere and expressive glamour.

In it, one little section excerpted from the grand epic poem which was verily his speech, the sincere speech which he betokened there before the party's pillowed and billet'd table-schemata, he spoke of his sister, the very thought of her, as being the crowning light at the end of all of his prayers while he was away and on the road. Back on the road, going to sleep on warehouse rooftops and underneath vacant lot streetlamps and on art studio front-lawns etc., etc., saying his prayers, he would always end them with one for her, his little sister. For the continued sanctity of her existence, her sincere beatitude, which was just, as it were, proved yet again, just before the writer began writing this piece, here.

For, during the writing of the past few stories, the writer, the eldest brother, has been using his sister's, his beautiful sister's, old MacBook, the reason's behind this being mentioned in another story of the writer's, available to read here on the blog: Reedsy (it's title is: NEWS AND FIELDFLOWERS, please, read and enjoy), and during the use of her old MacBook for the writing of these said short stories, has nosily stumbled into her Notes folder on the app marquee listed at the bottom of the screen (underneath Sarasvati's newfound Grace), and opened her file entitled: REMEMBER.

In it is merely a list of her self-reminders, things like, be thankful, and, I love my job. I told you, gentle reader, she is, to be sure, a poetic postulation incarnate.

For now, we shall be happy with the thought of her happy existence, and the sight of her eldest brother, I the writer, nosily reading her self-prayers, thinking of his own self-prayers, and adding her to his own. Alas, all the more.

The cup of brotherly love overflows, heaven-worthy emotion! Oh, surest grace, to see her lead a life safe and hardworking and pure!

A brother's love is as from some other plane. I sense that it's Angelic. As Angelic as her Grace: his little sister's happiness. Angelic as the impulse toward nosiness which led him to post the notes here.

Notes:

Guided meditations to fall asleep & put phone away 

Lay out in the sun more often

Take hikes

Bake new things

Find appointment planner 

Fill planner:

• Exercise same time every day 
• Set aside time to think about future, as in, what am I doing, where am I going? What are the things I am doing leading to?
• Try to catch at least one good thing in every person I meet
• Try to think about where I should be in 4 years as a person
• Try to only watch enlightened tv-series
• Try to spend more time with Hubby
• Save money, set account aside for special savings
• Go to bank to make new account
• Tell Hubby about new account
• Save some money in new account and put aside 4 homeless shelters
• Call my brothers
• Call Mom & Dad
• Highlight when completed or something to check it off 
• Schedule eating routine 
• Schedule time with friends (connect w/ ppl to help)
• Be true to your own self
• Love yourself, be thankful
• Take Daisy for a walk three times a day
• Use reward system in training her
• Buy dog treats
• Find time to be with myself
• Read more
• Highlight the things I want in the Putaway articles
• Be there for those who need it most
• Have fun!!!

Try to do one chore a day, make one whole meal a day, one personal hygiene (brush teeth), self care (journaling, exercise)

All 3

Get massage, take care of writing in journals

Guided meditation about facilitating a loving environment*

Simple Self Care:

• Short guided meditation
• Find time for peace, spread the peace
• Love everybody for who they are
• I love my job!!!

"See, I told you she's an Angel," the writer, the eldest brother, writes here.

He feels slightly shameful after exhibiting his bout of nosiness here on his blog, but his big heart is full of splendor and full-joyed. Overjoyed.

The writer, happy with his piece, softly closes his laptop, kinchted, and steps outside. There, he sees a cat sleeping, the evening's own soft, velvety cairn.

Against the wall, standing, is a shovel.

The writer glances at it, back at the cat, back at the shovel, and grabs the shovel.

He weighs it in his hands, and throws is so that it will definitely fall many feet away from the cat but definitely scare the living daylights out of it.

CLANGETY CLANK!

We see a happy big brother, the Angel, laughing at a scared cat. How rude.