EPITHALAMION:
A FEW WORDS FOR KATHLEEN

We’re here today to celebrate

the wedding of Kathleen and Mark.

Kathleen, when she was eight years old,

started coming with me to AA meetings on Friday nights.

That group had really good coffee, and as she would

make her way time after time to the coffeepot

I would lose sight of Kathleen, because she was short;

but I could follow her progress by watching the heads

turn to bless her with their eyes as she passed,

beautiful child that she was.

At the break they’d raffle off a Big Book,

and when the meeting broke up, Kathleen

would go from table to table collecting

all the discarded raffle tickets, which she would

bring home and store in a shoebox.

Why? I never figured it out.

Up came my anniversary, and my sponsor

was out of town, so I asked Kathleen

if she’d be willing to say a few words

in front of a roomful of grownups, and she was game—

Kathleen was always game. She had to stand

on a chair to reach the microphone, and if I remember

right, what she said was, “It is always an occasion

when someone celebrates their eleventh anniversary.

Jax?”

And if I’d been expecting something a little more—what?

personal? still, it was a great beginning for a ten-year run.

The next year she didn’t need the chair,

and she wrote a poem that began,

“My dad is the best/he’s been that way since birth/

It’s a shame there’s only one of him/on the planet earth.”

Year three she brought Annie with her, and she said,

“Last year I read a poem for my dad’s anniversary.

This year we’re here to explain the poem.”

Oh, would that every poet might acknowledge

that responsibility.

Kathleen’s presence those Friday nights lit up

that big gymnasium, and a lot of people

who never got to watch their own kids grow up

came to look forward to her presentations

as a highlight of their year.

Tom G., who couldn’t go with us

when we put on meetings in prisons

because he always set off the metal detectors

because he had a police bullet lodged

inoperably close to his spine,

said to me, “That kid is the best advertisement

for this program that anyone could ever see.”

And Billy T., a former three-hundred pound biker,

told me he had a daughter Kathleen’s age—

“somewhere,” and that every year he cried at

her presentation—but it was the good crying.

Now it’s my turn to say a few words for Kathleen—

but she tied my hands a little,

made me promise not to make her cry.

So I’ll address my comments to the groom.

Probably most fathers of the bride would admit

that they don’t think there’s a young man

in the world who’s worthy of their little girl.

I want Mark to know that I don’t feel that way—

particularly. But what I’m sure of is that Kathleen

and Mark have been extraordinarily lucky to find

each other. It’s crazy out there; most of us feel fortunate

to find anyone willing to cast their lot with us, let alone

the right person. Today my heart is telling me

that this is right.

Now, Mark, about the dowry;

I’m afraid I have to ask to be dispensed from that

particular archaic tradition; it’s not that I’m ungenerous,

just unemployed. But somewhere among Kathleen’s

belongings, in a cellar or an attic

or at the bottom of a closet,

you might still find

a shoebox

full of raffle tickets

that didn’t win anything.

If you find it, Mark, hang onto it. A lot of hopes

went into that box, the hopes of people whose

last names I never knew, people who didn’t win

life’s lotteries, didn’t dodge all of life’s bullets,

who once looked at Kathleen and took heart,

who loved her and left their tickets on the tables

in hope that they might be for her

tickets to a better life than they had had.

And any time you feel that life’s

too hard, and you’re too much alone,

take that box out and run your fingers

through those old raffle tickets, mix them up

real good, and think about how much luck it takes

to find the one person in the world

that we were meant to find.

Then go to the kitchen and put on a pot of some

really good coffee—and make enough for two.

Footnote to “Epithalamion”

Kathleen asked me to write a poem for her wedding, but one condition she imposed was that she had to see it before the wedding; she didn’t want to cry and ruin her makeup for the pictures. So I sent her the poem with plenty of lead-time. I also recommended that she run it by Mark’s family: they might not be happy to have it publicly announced that Mark was marrying into a family of alcoholics.

Kathleen and Mark liked the poem, and they gave a copy to Mark’s mother. We didn’t hear back and we didn’t hear back, and we had begun to think that Mark’s family— understandably—didn’t like the poem for the event.

Then, at a bridal shower for Kathleen, the gift Kathleen got from Mark’s mother was a coffee service for two.