Jean Nordhaus (Ted's mother) read a poem of her own:
Anniversary
I remember the heat, the green-striped tent,
the little canapes of crab and ham,
my frazzled mother, guests in summer hats,
bowls of roses wilting on the tables,
and how the water fell upon the ground
as rain and rose again. There was a body there
impersonating me. It wore my face,
my ice-blue linen dress (I had refused
the white) and stood, benumbed, on ice-blue
linen spikes while kisses floated by
like ducks along a moving track.
I felt that I was living
someone else's life, surprising
as the wedding presents heaped upstairs,
those pristine bowls and implements whose uses
I could barely guess. And you, so cheerful,
there beside me, wanting this.
We hardly knew each other then, although
our bodies recognized each other well enough
and half-suspected they could live together.
Were the day and the hour propitious?
Many who now are gone were still alive.
Others had not yet arrived. The auguries
said neither yes nor no, but there was water
in the air and on the ground and I
have held you in my arms as air
holds water to relinquish it again.