Cherry blossom branch on the ribs

The blossom came early this year, so Mrs Ashdown had the whole back wall of the church hall covered in it before anyone had a chance to say the word cancel. Pink as a cheap sweet, and dropping off the branches onto the pews. I stood in the aisle with the florist's secateurs still in my apron pocket and watched your uncle Terry's new in-laws argue about the seating plan as though it were the Somme.

Your Aunt Bev wore lilac and didn't speak to anyone for three hours. I'm telling you this because I think you'll want to know that what finally went wrong wasn't the rain or the vicar's cold. It was the place card. Someone had written the couple's names in gold ink, but they'd put the groom's first, and his mother decided that was an insult to the whole family line. Hell hath no fury, she said, loud enough for the cake table to hear. Nobody had the heart to point out she'd spelt the quotation wrong.

I took one branch home afterwards, the one with the best buds still closed, and it's standing in a jam jar on my windowsill. This morning the petals had dropped onto the sill in a neat pink ring, as if someone had been counting. I thought of you and the fitting you've got on Thursday. Don't let them pin the hem without me there.

Love, Gran