The tablecloths think they are wings to carry their tables away

My sister's first bridal shower and I am sitting with her college friends who are nice, though they all know each other and I don't know them, though I wouldn't mind knowing them better

The subject of gender roles keeps flitting through my mind and my thoughts feel like something sharp in my hands, though I guess it's no great thing to be dangerous enough to make a bridal shower unpleasant [nonetheless, I tell them they can wait]

My littlest cousin's brown feet in their saltwater sandals making their way in and out of the patio's latticed shadows

And I am shaking out the tablecloth in the warm wind this Southern California sky's exhale, and she is shrieking and running and I nearly catch her in its lace and I want to cry after her, How old I will be when it's your turn! Thirty-five, forty? And her, older than I am now? Strange and strange. I hope I am even more myself by then, and that she doesn't calm down too much.