Last week, my sister, Caoimhe, got married, so I was back in Derry with my entire family for the first time in almost a decade. It was a beautiful service, held in a converted barn near our family home. My son chafed at his adorable suit and tie, but we reminded him its charms were for our enjoyment, not his, and he contented himself by playing with his similarly well-dressed cousins. The service was filled with personal touches and several of my siblings got up and sang beautifully. I should clarify they were asked to do so and this was not one last show of one-upmanship within a family so large competition for attention has always been critical.
Despite my own beautiful singing voice, I was instead asked to write and perform some closing words for the ceremony. To the alarm and dismay of my more golden-throated siblings, I wrote a poem that was so good – funny, touching, it rhymed, etc – that I came out very much on top. Sure, my brother, Shane, has a rich baritone, but did he actually write She Moves Through The Fair? No. Whereas I wrote a poem that featured the word Kraftfahrzeug-Hapftpflichtversicherung and less than a dozen of those in attendance seemed confused or sleepy when I did so. Take that, sibs!
For this and many other reasons, it was a gorgeous day. Caoimhe – pronounced Caoimhe – is just 14 months older than me, and one of my favourite people in the world. She’s funny and clever and loyal and kind, and has met a lovely match in Eddie, who’s been a brother to my family in all but name for a decade now. There were tears during the speeches. My wife and I because we’re giant saps, our son because he couldn’t get his Kindle to work, and our daughter because she is an unreasonable baby with no time for petty sentiment.
Aside from inviting us to share in their day of love and joy, the happy couple’s greatest act of kindness came a little later; a shuttle bus for the kids back to my father’s house, where they would be looked after by two professional babysitters while two dozen of their indescribably grateful parents spent the next few hours singing and dancing and eating small artisanal burgers and chips. I’ve been to weddings with my kids – variably enjoyable – and without – less hassle, but harder to organise – and can confirm that a wedding at which said kids still get to wear cute little outfits, but are then dispatched to a second location at a respectable hour, is the best of all possible worlds.
At pickup time, we worried we’d arrive to find my father’s house in flames or, worse, every single child awake and screaming, their good clothes strewn with tears and sick. Luckily, we found that our son had been asleep long since and he remained unconscious all the way back to his own bed. He stirred just as we took his shoes off, and my wife began singing a soft lullaby to help him doze.
‘I’ve got this,’ I said, nudging her aside, and he fell gently asleep to the best poem he’s ever heard.
Did Ye Hear Mammy Died? by Séamas O’Reilly is out now (Little, Brown, £16.99). Buy a copy from guardianbookshop at £14.78
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