by Angela Kempe
They say that I wasn’t conceived before my parents were married, but I remember it anyway. My mother’s strong cheeks were blushing like pink roses as she stared contentedly at her beloved. Her lace veil flowed gently behind her in the cool Oregon breeze. Long sleeved, holding a bouquet of wild flowers, she stood in her satin wedding gown as beautiful as the roses blossoming around her.
I rest my head on a chunk of wispy clouds hovering over them, and gazed longingly down at my parents. Under the white gazebo, my father smiled in a rented light blue suit. The red highlights in his thick beard glistened in the sun. He could only stare at her beauty as he listened to the Priest, white teeth beaming with pride.
Around them were gathered family and friends sitting happily in white fold-up chairs decorated with fake wild flowers and leafy garland. I knew it was time to go, but I dared to steal one more look.
As Grandma cried in the front row, a great peace came over me. That was my loving family.
“Bye Mommy and Daddy,” I said as I was whisked away by a strong force, sweeping me back to heaven.