“Come. I’ll show you to our table,” Aunt Mahnaz said, taking my grandfather by the arm and leading him into the ballroom. I joined my sister who was staring at the tiny placards on the table.
“Where are Mom and Dad sitting?” I asked her.
“They’re at table two,” Tara said as she picked up the placard with her name on it. “We’re table eleven,” she said as she found the card with my name on it and handed it to me. “You know what that means.” She rolled her eyes. I think she assumed that, because she was eighteen, she wouldn’t be assigned to the kids’ table anymore.
To be honest, I dug a kids’ table. There was always a chance you’d be served macaroni and cheese, plus no one wasted breath on small talk. Kids’ table talk was very direct. Questions like, “How old are you?” and “Do you like dogs?” and my favorite, “How come your eyebrows are so thin/bushy?” depending on the day.
Tara slowed her pace, probably so that I could keep up with her in heels as we walked into the ballroom. The giant crystal chandelier overhead lit an empty wooden dance floor, tables with centerpieces made of white flowers, and a small bar with guests lined up to get a drink. Servers flitted from guest to guest, serving hors d’oeuvres to women in stunning dresses and men in tuxes, while the DJ played some jazz at a low volume.
We arrived at table eleven to find two young boys already seated. One looked about twelve and the other maybe six. They looked like they were related to one another and like they belonged to the groom’s side of the family.
I sat down next to the six-year-old while Tara sat across from the twelve-year-old, who blinked a lot when he saw Tara. I’d been told by my bandmates that Tara was super hot, which creeped me out, but I understood that this poor kid wasn’t prepared for puberty to hit him all at once.
The six-year-old stared up at me. His nose was running, and he was wearing a red bow tie with suspenders. His round cheeks were begging to be pinched, but I hated when people did that to kids. Grown-ups should at least ask permission before they grabbed baby flesh.
“Are you here to marry Uncle Paul, too?” the little one said to me.
“No. He only gets to marry one person,” I said. “I’m Darya.”
“I’m Wyatt. I have a Spider-Man game on my mom’s tablet. I can’t play it now because it’s dinnertime, but I can show it to you later and we can play.”
“Wyatt, that’s all I want to do. Ever.” The kid and I were going to get along fine.
“You found a friend on your wavelength,” Tara said, giving me a golf clap.
“Jealous?” I asked her. I think she was a little. Wyatt was adorable.
“That’s my brother, Craig,” Wyatt said, pointing to the boy who was mooning over my sister. “He’s allergic to nuts so we can’t have any peanut butter in the house. But that’s okay because I love him.”
“That’s my sister, Tara,” I said, nodding in her direction. “She’s allergic to joy but Mom says that’s because of something called hormones. I love her, too. Sometimes.”
“You’re hilarious,” Tara muttered. “Maybe I will post that photo of you in a dress after all.”
I glared at her. She laughed and took her phone out to take another photo of me.
“Hi,” Craig said, introducing himself to my sister. “Uncle Paul said you’re from Boston?”
“Yup,” she said, looking at her phone and not giving him much to work with.
“That’s cool. I guess you must be Patriots fans. I’m a Vikings guy. Well, not really. Football isn’t my jam. I’m into basketball. Snowboarding, too. There must be great snowboarding and skiing near where you live because it’s cold most of the time. We have that in common. Cold climates. Winter’s my favorite season. Do you like winter?”
Tara smiled at her new admirer’s rambling. “Winter’s rad, Craig,” she said with a charitable grin before she turned her attention back to her phone. Craig beamed, as his very white cheeks turned cherry red. Oh what power she wielded over the male species. I hoped she did some good and smashed the patriarchy with it.
Suddenly, we heard a jovial yell in Farsi. I turned to see my grandfather cradling his brother’s head with reverence in his hands. Grandfather was smiling with tears running down his cheeks. The two men held each other, and everyone around them became very quiet, as if not wanting to interrupt the moment.
“Why are they crying?” Wyatt asked me.
“They’re happy to see each other,” I whispered to him.
“But they’re crying. You cry when you’re sad,” he whispered back to me.
“They’re a little sad too, I guess,” I choked out, keeping my tears at bay. I was wearing mascara, a rare occurrence, and I didn’t want to spend the rest of the wedding looking like a raccoon. My grandfather and my great-uncle backed away from each other a little, still holding on to one another’s arms as they spoke in Farsi. Now they were smiling through the tears.
“How come?” Wyatt asked, leaning into me a little.
“Well, you know how you love your brother Craig?” Wyatt looked at his brother and nodded. “Imagine he lived somewhere very, very far away.”
“Like in outer space? On Endor?” Star Wars fans start so young.
“Sure. Like he was hanging out with Ewoks on Endor and you were on Naboo.”
“Can I be on Endor? That’s more fun.”
“Okay, you were on Endor and you couldn’t visit your brother because you weren’t allowed on his planet.”
“Because of Darth Vader?”
I didn’t feel equipped to explain a condensed history of foreign policy, world events, or unfettered xenophobia to a six-year-old. Maybe we’d see each other at another family function when he was older and we could discuss it further.
“Something like that,” I said.
“Oh,” Wyatt
