The Wrong Vowel

The air was thick,

the smell of lilies and old coats.

He stood up there,

a nervous tick

in his left eye, cleared his throat.

And then he said her name.

Carole, he called her,

a long drawn out 'o'

and a hard 'e' on the end.

Carole. My Aunt Carol,

who corrected everyone, would know

this was a wrong to mend.

A small tremor started,

deep in my gut, a ripple.

His face, earnest, a bit too red,

as he kept repeating, parted

his lips for 'Carole,' and a nipple

of laughter rose, unsaid.

It caught behind my teeth,

a small, sharp gasp,

as I looked at the polished wood.

A quiet, desperate breath,

a small, unholy grasp

of something misunderstood.