Reginald

My cousin texted Tuesday:

Do you remember him calling Raymond Reginald?

I was there. I had the program in my hand,

his name on the front, spelled right, clean —

Raymond, Times New Roman. The priest had planned

to say it and instead said something between

Reynold and a name I'd never heard,

caught himself, tried Renard, which isn't a name,

went quiet, tried again. The third

attempt was Reginald. Not the same.

My cousin and I, across the aisle,

both found the floor simultaneously.

I bent the program corner. The trial

was just: don't make a sound. We managed, barely.

We texted for half an hour Tuesday.

She said: I feel terrible.

I said: I know.

We kept going.

Raymond would have laughed first.

That's the part I keep landing on —

not that we laughed, but the rehearsed

knowledge that he'd have gone

before us. Would have turned and looked.

Would have been the first to fold.

The program had his name right.

He was Raymond.