| Current Issue | About CHO | Editorial Staff & Guidelines | Submissions | Articles | Archives | Search |
January 2017, vol 12 no 4

| Contents This Issue | Next Haibun |

Jo Balistreri


It was a hot day in mid summer when our seven-year-old daughter decided to get married. She wore her communion dress, veil, the long white stockings. The groom, also seven, wore his only suit. The priest, our oldest son, wore his altar boy red and white. The bridesmaid, her sister, made a dandelion chain for her hair and carried sweet peas. The youngest brother held the flag.

When her father and I looked out the window and saw them gathered in the rose garden, we stood gape-mouthed—bride and groom kneeling in the dirt, the priest blessing them. It was then I saw the flower girls, their bouquets of roses, daisies, bachelor buttons, zinnias, baby’s breath and some boxwood, our vases bereft. My husband snapped a photo just before the bride came running toward the house, sobbing. I don’t want to marry him. Make it stop.

a dab of perfume—
of summer’s past