And that’s how I ended up in Vegas, a most unlikely place for me.
Vegas is flashing lights and fountains.
It’s selling myself on the strip. Vegas is
America’s cardboard cut-out for fun. And
I’m fun only about sixty percent of the time.
I just learned how to knit, the last book I read was cover to cover and closed in two days, and the biggest event on my calendar to date is the Museum of Contemporary Art on a Tuesday afternoon in March. Not exactly E! Hollywood’s free trip to the strip.
Even if I loved the city lights, Vegas is nothing more than my dream of playing on NHL ice with the pros. I just have no business there, in my Jordan Staal jersey and Easton Magnum unsure blades.
And surely no business in Vegas, in this hooded sweatshirt and my tennis shoes.
Sure, it was just a simple request. Fly to Vegas and marry him was all he’d asked.
I never said no, if I recall.
Behind a 1920’s bar rail, I bought
my ticket on a pagan plane.
Secured my seat at the head
table of a wedding Vegas has never seen.
Sin City will always be a rebellion from the regular. Bleeding with his sense of adventure, I was thankfully free to escape from permanency. With nothing to hold, no one to tell, not a thing in my hand but his, we sat behind the wing, he, bravely by the window.
No bags, no burden, just bodies
in neighboring seats. Two, like a couple, slept on
shoulders like pillows during take-off. It was without
consequence, and I would do it too. No hating or cheating,
no lying or forsaking Thy Name, I leaned my holy head on his arm
wrapped around me and watched the flaps on the wing lift us
off the ground, Vegas-bound.
We were the only ones in Vegas. Just he and me, pre-prodigal girl, running soon the other way into wide open arms, my Vegas dream chasing me back to reality.
It’s true, we might’ve flown just like that
after he asked. No matter that we didn’t,
it’ll always be he that was made
to make me laugh.
And I might’ve married him that year, if I’d ever ended up in Vegas.
This is how I ended up in Vegas.