This is Bee.
She’s proud of her new, fluffy-collared coat. At four years-old, fluffy equals fancy, so some Sunday School swagger is in order. Those Crayolas ain’t gonna unsharpen themselves.
I have mentally push-pinned this photo onto a corner downtown, now devoid of hedges, but still shadowed by a peaked chapel at the church that Bee grew up in.
Bee’s mom got married, recently enough that the cake-topper is still perched on the counter, slathered in buttercream with scant saran wrap. This new fella seems to be responsible for the new church, perhaps the fuzzy coat, and of great import – the first ever locked door, separating Bee from her mother.
The door situation, having to lie flat, half her mouth muffled by shag carpet as she wails best she can beneath the door, for the release of her beloved, is perhaps the first time Bee has had to consider that they were not one and the same.
She’ll give up eventually, wander down the hall to investigate that chunk of cake, adorned with pastel curlicues and fondant violets. They’ll melt onto Bee’s tongue, the whole lot of fancy sugary bits.
This is the first wedding cake that Bee will un-frost one finger-full at a time, but it will not be the last.