The Postman’s Wedding Hamdy Elgammal
I married my wife last Thursday. I’m a postman; she’s a six-foot fly. Diane and I had lived together before the wedding, but we had never discussed marriage. We don’t talk much. The wedding took place in my backyard. To make space, I deflated the blue pool and moved the grill inside. We invited a couple of people to our wedding: Dr. Yoko, an adjunct entomology professor at the University, and a friend of Diane’s, and our neighbor Mr. Cross. Mr. Cross had spent his twenties in a seminary, so I asked him to stop by and officiate. He agreed, came an hour late and stood there, checking his watch. “Vows?” he asked. I hadn’t prepared any vows. The wedding had been set on Diane’s whim Wednesday night. She had whims like that. She’d decided the topic of her Ph.D. dissertation in anthropology based on a dream she’d had one night. I had understood little of that dissertation, but I told her I’d gotten all of it. I attended her final presentation at the University and took her out to dinner afterwards. I listened to her talk about all the things I didn’t understand. I thought of that as I stood in the yard, the sunlight brushing my forearms. “Aren’t you supposed to say a few words first?” I said to Mr. Cross. He blinked at me. I turned to Diane to see if she had anything to say. “I’m glad,” she said, “glad we’ll have each other.” I grinned and her folded wings moved up and out. Dr. Yoko wrote frantic notes during all this. “Okay,” Mr. Cross said, sighing, “ we can cut this short: you both down for this marriage thing?” 32
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