By David De Jong
It was just the first rehearsal,
A wedding, elegant, simple.
My little girl that graced my knee,
I had to practice setting free.
She was the oldest of three girls,
Sweet voices and silken, blond curls.
I always knew this day would come,
How she would find that special one.
He spoke to me, asked my blessing,
All the while, his love confessing.
I gave my father’s wave of grace.
To let this young man take my place.
All these thoughts, scrambling my brain,
Trying to focus, church glass pane.
We take our places, wait our queues,
Looking across, old wooden pews.
Music started, she held my arm,
We took our steps, a night so warm.
The isle was short, the walk was long,
My heart raced every note of song.
I glanced, saw a tear pass her cheek,
Each step taken my knees grew weak.
I dropped a tear, she seen it fall,
As our eyes spoke, they could not stall.
The more we walked, the more we cried,
And we couldn’t stop, though we tried.
Reaching the pulpit and the groom,
Our tears were heard, back of the room.
When asked; “Who gives this bride away?”
My salted tongue no words could say.
After a bit, composure came,
My lips quivered, giving my name.
Many years, since that day was spent,
Swiftly gone, but with merriment.
We laugh, cherish, this memory,
A tear still comes – with Canon D.