EPITHALAMION
KAILEE MARIE PEDERSEN
—for Waleed
“ ’ .”
“are you sure?”
after the wedding, you help clean up the dishes, even though
she tells you not to. “ , ,” she says.
“well,” you say, “put the cake in the Saran Wrap.”
you used to work at the shopping mall, selling sunglasses.
(this is what your father also did.)
“ , ?”
“no stag party,” you say, smiling, but
the rest of your face does not change at all.
you met her in college,
and for many years afterwards you considered the finer points
of attraction, the possibility of an aphrodisiac
spilled into the drinking fountain,
the accidental nature of love.
“ ,” she says.
“not much to say,” you reply.
Laos.
your father, a small tyrant.
“ .”
“my mother’s been dead for a long time.”
five years, ten years, twenty years.
they all look like their mother,
but at least one of them likes
watching soccer with you.
“ . , . .”
“four years?”
“ .”
you are no longer listening.
on the way back, you think of the Irrawaddy dolphins
you watched as a child,
diving, surfacing, diving again–
your knees submerged in
the wet tide of the Mekong, your mother
still alive.
“she would have liked you,” you say,
unconvincingly.
“ ,” she says.
“ , ,” you say.
“are you sure?”
after the wedding, you help clean up the dishes, even though
she tells you not to. “ , ,” she says.
“well,” you say, “put the cake in the Saran Wrap.”
you used to work at the shopping mall, selling sunglasses.
(this is what your father also did.)
“ , ?”
“no stag party,” you say, smiling, but
the rest of your face does not change at all.
you met her in college,
and for many years afterwards you considered the finer points
of attraction, the possibility of an aphrodisiac
spilled into the drinking fountain,
the accidental nature of love.
“ ,” she says.
“not much to say,” you reply.
Laos.
your father, a small tyrant.
“ .”
“my mother’s been dead for a long time.”
five years, ten years, twenty years.
they all look like their mother,
but at least one of them likes
watching soccer with you.
“ . , . .”
“four years?”
“ .”
you are no longer listening.
on the way back, you think of the Irrawaddy dolphins
you watched as a child,
diving, surfacing, diving again–
your knees submerged in
the wet tide of the Mekong, your mother
still alive.
“she would have liked you,” you say,
unconvincingly.
“ ,” she says.
“ , ,” you say.
KAILEE MARIE PEDERSEN is a senior Classics major at Columbia University. She is the recipient of a 2015 Individual Artist Fellowship in Nonfiction from the Nebraska Arts Council. Her work has appeared in Strange Horizons, Identity Theory, and Quarto Magazine. She divides her spare time between opera, video games, and her in-progress essay collection.
