Outlast

We were at a cedar barn for the wedding 
of our nephew, with rows of chairs set out 

on either side of a trellis overlooking a man-made
pond. The left was for members of the bride's party, 

and the right for us; except we were vastly outnumbered by
her family's many relations and friends. All this made me recall  

stories about my parents' marriage—it must have been a feat 
of rhetorical and other kinds of persuasion, considering how long 

my paternal grandmother held out before she gave her grudging 
consent. My mother was only a farmer's daughter. But she was 

aware of the ways of a world that wanted to put people in their
imagined place. My parents' union lasted over thirty-five years, 

until my father's death. My mother, never the favorite 
to begin with,  counted as victory every year she outlasted.