I officiate my brother’s wedding in an old villa in the Massachusetts town of Manchester by the Sea. We never see the sea, but we pass stacks of empty lobster traps on the side of the road; inhale the faint fetor of fish and watch as the fog drifts over the pine forest, while we sit after supper on a stone terrace at a long table draped in royal blue linen.
My big brother, Patrick wears a cotton navy blue suit, a maroon tie and shoes of red brown leather. A plate of flower corsages is passed around and we all take and pin the stems with pedals to our suit jackets, vests, dresses or hair. We the wedding guests are all in shades of blue. There are only seventeen of us: two mothers, two fathers, six sisters, one brother, two brothers-in-law, one boyfriend, and three nieces under the age of three. For a little while, there is a photographer and her pre-teen daughter. And there is a little dog.
While we wait, we watch the babies play on the red rug in the main room where the ceremony will take place. They wear the matching blue dresses Michelle gave them. Amelia crawls and sits and crawls and sits, while my two-year-old niece, Lily runs around looking for snacks, smiles and songs. I give the girls blueberries until my sister Samantha warns me that if I give her daughter any more, I will be changing her diapers for the rest of the day. Dad’s guitar leans its neck against a white column in the corner. He asks me when he’ll go on. He’s singing a song during the ceremony and he’d like to know when he should get nervous. I show him my two papers of words and point to the place at the top of the second page,
“And then I’ll say, ‘And speaking of song, Dad?’.”
He’s chatty and excited. He says he usually doesn’t stand when he plays. He has a strap, but he still usually sits. I don’t think anything of it. He’s played guitar and sung for us all our lives. Usually when he gets started, he’ll play for hours. He knows so many songs. His short, thick brown fingers picking and strumming as he sings. Looking back, I wish I had realized he was nervous. I would have urged him to sit during his part.
Eventually, the hair lady leaves. Then the make-up lady leaves. Michelle’s friends say good-bye (though my mother tries to convince them to watch the ceremony from above, from the second floor interior windows, to which one replies that “that isn’t Michelle’s vision.”) Patrick and Michelle want a very small wedding. Her friends, whom Michelle has played maid to all their brides, understand. They arrived the night before to help and to celebrate and now their part is over.
In her mother’s long lace veil and her buttoned blouse and shorts, Michelle comes down to check in. Soon her sisters will strap her into her wedding gown. She gives my husband, Scott her cellphone and shows him the songs she’d like him to play. She is giddy and pretty, smiling and laughing. She runs upstairs and a little while later calls down for the music to begin. I stand where I’ve been told, at the far end of the rectangle rug beside my brother. The music plays and as Michelle walks down the grand staircase with her mother and father, we all stare with smiles. She goes to Patrick. They hold hands and turn to me. I take a breath and begin.
Welcome to the wedding of Patrick and Michelle ---two people we all love very much.
There are vows Patrick and Michelle will recite –grand little words above pyramids of moments, promises and plans—. A vow is solemn… formal, dignified, not casual, not implied, but purposeful, specific and with lace, ribbon, smiles, flowers and with ceremony. A wedding ceremony like this one with mothers, fathers, three little nieces, sisters, brothers. A wedding ceremony where the bride and groom promise to take, to have, to hold, to give love and to be loved in health, wealth, illness and poorness, with the good, with the bad, with the happy, and with the sad.
He promises to inspire her. To tease, hold, and kiss her. He promises to eat her perfect apple pie and sip from her crafted porcelain pottery. She promises to soften him. To be the sugar to his salt. She promises to squeeze him and to tease him too. She promises to dream with him. She promises to make those pies and pottery and to sing for him and with him and to twirl on abandoned stages as the sun sinks and the sky fills with color. He promises to meet difficult discussions with openness and understanding. She promises to make coffee beforehand. He promises to eat a lot more bacon; have more opinions; buy more plain t-shirts and he promises that they will be safely, sweetly sheltered. She swears she’ll buy more boots and books and teach him a little something about doing nothing. And she promises to work hard. He promises to work hard. She believes in him. He believes in her.
If he isn’t well, she will retrieve hot lemon tea, blankets and bowls of chicken carrot stew, and, if he’ll agree to go, she’ll take him to the doctor. He promises to lend her his shoulder and shirt sleeve and to take her to fields, mountain tops and to the seaside for better breathing, for healing. He promises to wake up early because life is good and best before the sun rises. He promises that he will not just sit on the train of life, but run alongside it because their lives don’t have to be on a track with a sad, monotone voice announcing mapped stops and planned milestones. Life is whatever they want it to be. It is here for them to take and twist and turn, to shake, dance and shout. She promises to join him in the early mornings and to carry their babies in her body and to raise children with him. She promises they will draw their own path, he with his photographed and written roads; she with glossy paint, sand and song.
And speaking of song…Dad?
Dad stares ahead at the floor, listening. He seems slightly surprised, but then he turns and lifts his guitar. He introduces the song. It’s called Danny’s Song. It was written by Anne Murray, he tells us, but it was made famous by Kenny Loggins. My mother urges him to begin, afraid he’ll talk all day if we let him. Oh, he’s nervous --I realize. He begins to pick the strings of his guitar and his voice of smoke, honey and (to me) the rawest, most tender of fatherly love wraps us all up.
People smile and tell me I’m the lucky one
And we’ve just begun, think I’m gonna have a son
He will be like you and me as free as a dove
Conceived in love, the sun is gonna shine above.
My sister Jessica was born exactly nine months after my parents’ wedding day. Patrick was born just ten months after Jessica –“Irish Twins”, they’ve always been called. He was born a little premature and small. The doctor took him away when he was born and wouldn’t tell my mother why or when she’d be able to see him. She didn't see him at all the day he was born. Back then, Mom and Dad didn’t have two pennies to rub together or a pot to piss in. Their little ranch house in Buzzards Bay, Cape Cod had pipes that would freeze in the winter and Dad would use Mom’s hair dryer to temporarily fix the problem. It wasn’t until much later that my grandfather, my father’s father-in-law, told him that the pipes could be wrapped to prevent freezing.
During his introduction to the song, Dad encourages us all to sing along if we want. We do want. Here is the chorus we kids know so well, a chorus Michelle has heard and sung with us many times too.
And even though we ain’t got money
I’m so in love with you honey
And everything will bring a chain of love
And in the morning when I rise
You bring a tear of joy to my eyes
And tell me everything’s gonna be alright
He starts to ease a little, looking over to Patrick and Michelle as he sings.
Seems as though a month ago, I was Beta-Chi
Never got high
Oh, I was a sorry guy
And now, I smile and face the girl that shares my name
Now I’m through with the game
This boy will never be the same.
And again, the chorus we sing.
And even though we ain’t got money…
...And tell me everything’s gonna be alright
Pisces, Virgo rising is a very good sign
Strong and kind
And the little boy is mine
Now I see a family where there once was none
Now we’ve just begun
Yeah, we’re gonna fly to the sun
Again, the chorus.
And even though we ain’t got money…
...And tell me everything’s gonna be alright
Love the girl who holds the world in a paper cup
Drink it up, love her and she’ll bring you luck
And if you find she helps your mind, better take her home,
Don’t you live alone,
Try to earn what lovers own
And we all sing the last chorus together.
And even though we ain’t got money
I’m so in love with ya honey
Everything will bring a chain of love
And in the morning when I rise
You bring a tear of joy to my eyes
And tell me everything’s gonna be alright.
Dad brings tears of joy to our eyes. I continue.
They hope to live together until they are ancient elders with soft wrinkled skin, white hair and wisdom. They hope to seek and see both country and city; to meet, friend and cherish both beautiful spirited souls and spontaneous pals; and to experience both tremendous moments of joy and important moments of growth. They hope that when death arrives, it is benevolent and patient ---that when their bodies quit breathing, their hearts stop beating, death finds them ready with relief, with acceptance, not fear. I speak for everyone here when I say that we all hope time is generous to you, Patrick and Michelle, that you have many, many more mornings of meeting the sun together.
Michelle, you choose Patrick. Patrick, you choose Michelle. And together you’ve chosen today, June 4, 2016, to put your love into rings and writing for everyone to see.
Please retrieve your rings!
I, Michelle, take you, Patrick, for my lawful husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, until death do us part.
I, Patrick, take you, Michelle, for my lawful wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, until death do us part.
Michelle, do you? … I do! She says.
Patrick, do you? …Sure why not! He says.
By the power vested in me by the state of Massachusetts (and the Internet), I now pronounce you, husband and wife.
As the world continues to frighten me, I retreat to these remembered moments where LOVE lives. Moments where I am reminded that it is LOVE that we all so desperately need. For LOVE saves, LOVE heals, LOVE connects, and LOVE creates us. Patrick and Michelle choose LOVE. They choose to unite legally, vocally, spiritually. My father sings with LOVE to his wife, his son and his son's wife, to and for us all --despite any fears that he'll forget the notes or the words to the song he's singing. After the ceremony, we all hug LOVE; laugh LOVE and kiss LOVE. It is LOVE that warms our throats and wrinkles our faces into smiles. It is LOVE and LOVE's partner, HOPE who whisper to us every morning, when we wake up, just what we need to hear, which is that, everything’s gonna be alright.
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