This is the 22nd installment of a 100-day challenge to write a new vignette every morning.
Today we gathered moss for my uncle’s wedding. I’m preparing the anecdote for my wife now so I’ll have it ready when we talk tonight.
My cousins and I arrived early—as the wedding party is wont to do—and we found him in an absolute state. He told us all about the vision he had for the aisle. He told us how the decorating service had brought putting-green surface. He told us he didn’t know if he could go through with the wedding if he didn’t have his vision.
So we’re out here collecting moss.
We’re having none of it, and our grumbling just gets worse as the sun sinks lower. I’m glad I’m wearing pants instead of that cute dress I’d planned to wear, but that’s only the smallest of mercies. I’m still going to be dragging clods of mud to the rehearsal dinner—if we even make it back in time. Christ, I was looking forward to that salmon.
Ten minutes ago, someone—Harold, I guess—tried to start up some singing to pass the time, but we shut him down. This isn’t a childhood road trip.
“I’m just glad Dad will finally have someone else to bother,” my favorite cousin, Lily, says. She’s not mean; she’s tired. Our silence is agreement.
We trudge back toward the house when we lose the sun, and Lily’s in the lead with her phone flashlight. My least favorite cousin—Harold, the one who brought tuna to school and never left home—is right in front of me, and he’s kicking his feet in a way that makes me want to kick him.
“I have a confession to make,” he says. “There was no decorating service. He, uh, was making me do all of it, and I couldn’t get enough moss on my own—you can’t just buy it online!”
I have half a mind to bring my handful of moss to the ceremony to throw at an opportune time. I lob it at the back of Harold’s head instead.
Miles Away 