Mispronounced

The priest kept calling her Margaret.

Not Margot. Margaret.

Like he'd never seen the name on a page,

like the silent t at the end

was something he invented

to fill the empty air.

His index card was shaking.

The letters printed too small for his sight,

and somewhere in his coat pocket,

his glasses waited for him

while he mispronounced

her name

into the careful silence.

My cousin looked at me.

I looked away.

But he'd already caught it,

that exact moment

when grief turned into something bright,

when sorrow became

impossible,

when the whole thing

started to feel

like a setup for a joke

no one was allowed to tell.

The second time he said it,

I had to leave.

Had to walk to the bathroom

where I could finally

let it come out,

could finally become

the person who laughs

at the worst moment,

the one who understands

that getting someone's name wrong

when they can't correct you

is the cruelest kind of accuracy.