Choice Words

When the elated Mother-to-Be, Father-to-Be, and Grammy-to-Be let go from their embrace, they thought, almost simultaneously, Uncle-to-Be must be called. Uncle-to-Be as in Brother-of-the-Bride. Eloquent Toastmaster of rehearsed extemporaneous-ness.

Uncle-to-Be was one hundred miles away. What better opportunity to initiate a Face Time call? We’d get to hear and see his reaction, in iPhone video motion. I expected a single raised eyebrow – reminiscient of his Dad’s -- would punctuate his facial expression. A complement to well chosen words of congratulations.

We sent the Face-Time request, iPhone to iPhone. But BOTB was at work at a fitness center. Face-to-face group talk? Out of the question. BOTB could not talk at all.  He could only text a quick reply, a clandestine sweep of thumbs over keyboard, between one fitness-center-chore and another:

can’t talk now.

David Kilper/WUSTL Photo

We three were disappointed but not deterred. “Send him the picture,” I suggested. Father-to-Be switched his iPhone to camera application and focused in on the monochromatic photo on the table. The photo that had been the message in the baby bottle. If you stared at the picture long enough, it looked like Casper the Ghost, cradled in an infant rocker.

 Father-to-Be added a text to the photogram, “Hi Uncle,” and tapped Send.

The message took off with a swoosh. Within seconds the tri-tone of an incoming text bubbled. And Uncle-to-Be’s response lay before us.

A response to which I immediately thought  It'll  be a very  l o n g  time before the baby gets to hear that!

(Intro to a) Charmed Toast: Four

• After the late afternoon breeze carried the sound of the memorial prayer for Larry and others through the gathering of family and friends. . .
• After Em and Ry promised to love each other through thick and thin, she tempering their seriousness with a reference to his penchant for corny jokes, he, to her practice of wearing swimming goggles when chopping onions. . .
• After we processed into a barn decorated with tiny white lights ...and the wedding party danced to music overlaid with a voice track spoken by the bride and the groom, telling stories that connected them to each member of the bridal entourage. . .
• After we bowed our heads and prayed. . .

. . . it was time to raise our glasses.  Which brought Conor, the bride’s brother, to the microphone, champagne flute in hand.

Photo by Amy Brogna Baione

I recall he wiped his forehead in  Lewis Black fashion. Then he said something about wanting to put more time into his tribute, but. . .

(BUT? I thought)

. . .but he had been distracted.

I expected to hear about  grad school work, late bartending hours. Instead he pulled his iPhone out of his pants pocket as if to check speech notes, the Lewis Black fidget down pat.

Before I knew it he had his back to the audience. He was taking something out of a backpack he had  hidden under a nearby chair. Then he spun back to the mike, and said,

                    “But I couldn’t pull myself away from this book, just released.”

And that was when he held my memoir up high for all to see. My memoir of loss – the loss of Larry -- which,for myself, I had ruled out of the realm of mention at the wedding.

The guests roared.

And then Conor got serious. . .