Call Home: Poems

by Judy Wells

MISS HAVISHAM DOES NOT LIVE HERE

Today at 899 Willow
my brother
while cleaning out the kitchen closet,
amidst old cans of Campbell’s soup,
saran wrap, and childhood valentines,
came across
the top of an ancient wedding cake
in a box.
“It’s mom and dad’s!” he yelled.

But Mimi thought it looked familiar—
compared the fluffy white-skirted
little bride and the groom in tux
to a photo she had of her wedding.
It was her cake top, all right,
40 years old, and mom had saved it.
My brother wanted to cut into Mimi’s cake.
“It’s still moist!” said Mel.

Then he found Nancy’s wedding cake top
in another box—
all roses and pillars
with a little vase on top for flowers.
Nancy was modern,
hadn’t wanted a bride and groom.
This cake was only 35 years old.

Then my brother found the pièce de résistance.
Mom and dad’s wedding cake—
64 years old!
“It’s petrified!” I yelled, poking it,
and noting the elegant 30s slim dress
on the bride, the slender groom in tux.
Big sugar roses surrounded them,
and beneath this top plate
was a circle of dark fruit cake
on another plate.
“Still good,” said Nancy.

Dale took a photo of the four of us,
Mimi, Nancy, Judy, and Mel,
holding all the cakes,
representing something like
140 years of marriage.
Only I have escaped this fate
though I thought later
after the camera’s flash,
I’d like that elegant 30s bride and groom
on my and Dale’s wedding cake one day.

“Something old, something new,
something borrowed, something blue.”
They were old all right,
they’d be borrowed.
As for new and blue—
we’d have to get something else,
unless the mold begins to grow
on that dark fruit cake—
then we’d have everything.