She didn’t want
to send invitations.
Why invite people you know aren’t going to come.
Seems a waste.
So her Daddy’s daughter.

It’s traditional,
says Mere,
People like to know.

She didn’t send invitations.

And now she sits,
easy to find with her purple hair,
in a mob of her classmates

awaiting a short walk,
a slip of paper,
the endnotes of this chapter
that she doesn’t really need to tell her
that the next one has started.