This week’s writer of the week is a participant in the first Vignette’s Writing Course. She is over eighty and she was sure she couldn’t write, but this was her first Vignette.
The flower girl.
After the wedding, the family got together in the ball-room-proportioned dining room in Granny’s farm house on the outskirts of Atherton, gathering for entertainment, dancing to the sounds of the piano accordion and violin. At seven years old, I was the important flower girl for my favorite aunt, Miglia, who was marrying a tall, dark and handsome stranger called Jack, on a perfect winter’s afternoon in June, 1938. The bridal party emerged from two cars, the bride and groom stepped into position behind me, and I tidied my organza sky blue floor length dress carrying my lovely big basket of fresh flowers, dolled up with make-up and feeling very proud. I lead them excitedly through the wide hall into the reception, moving slowly in the stiff dress with its mauve organza sash and a matching scarf around my head. The guests had gathered at one end as I looked behind me at the bride and groom and sheepishly scuttled back outside where the wedding party were still chatting, oblivious to the fact that their flower girl had marched alone to the reception.