The Saturday afternoon sun dappled the ground of the backyard of the wedding reception as I chatted with an old friend I hadn’t seen in years. As we reminisced about years past and the pathways our lives had taken over the more recent days, the boy in the white shirt approached with a slice of cake perched on the clear, plastic plate.
“Would you like a some cake?” he asked.
I broke from my conversation, thanking him for it, commenting that a British accent would probably have been more appropriate—considering the look of seriousness on his face.
The boy cocked his head to one side, nodded curtly, and clicked his heels together as he added in the appropriate accent.
“Would you like a slice of cake, my good sir?”
“Indeed, I would,” I responded.
With this he extended the plate in his hand. I took it gracefully as he went off amongst the other guests, delivering additional wedges of cake he snagged from the nearby refreshment table—a job that nobody had asked him to do—using his English accent the entire time.
As I stood and watched him, I found myself wishing that he were not just a third grader - but a fifth; also that he went to my school...after all, I had a feeling he’d make a wonderful Joey.
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