Poem 31 | Gabriel 

By Edward Hirsch

I did not know the work of mourning Is like carrying a bag of cement Up a mountain at night

The mountaintop is not in sight Because there is no mountaintop Poor Sisyphus grief

I did not know I would struggle Through a ragged underbrush Without an upward path

Because there is no path There is only a blunt rock With a river to fall into

And Time with its medieval chambers Time with its jagged edges And blunt instruments

I did not know the work of mourning Is a labor in the dark We carry inside ourselves

Though sometimes when I sleep I am with him again And then I wake

Poor Sisyphus grief I am not ready for your heaviness Cemented to my body

Look closely and you will see Almost everyone carrying bags Of cement on their shoulders

That’s why it takes courage To get out of bed in the morning And climb into the day

REFLECTION

Edward Hirsch knows what it is to mourn the loss of a “wounded pilgrim” son. He lost an only son, Gabriel, who was twenty-two when he died of cardiac arrest from a combination of alcohol and a party drug that had been slipped into a drink.

Hirsch is saying that, like Sisyphus from Greek mythology who was condemned for eternity to push a boulder up a hill, only to have it roll back again and again, he feels crushed under this weight.

In an interview, “A Poet on Losing His Son,,” Hirsch once observed that in the United States everyone wants to talk about healing right away. But to Hirsch, that felt false. He feels that before you can heal, you have to fully mourn. He wrote, “Some nights I could not tell / If he was the wrecking ball / Or the building it crashed into.”

Gabriel had developmental disabilities and had collected diagnoses and various school and mental-health interventions in his short life. One of the most poignant lines of all from Hirsch’s interview might be this one that comes as no surprise to a  parent: “He was trouble / but he was our trouble.”

His father is willing to carry “Poor Sisyphus grief” and this willingness has awokened in him the recognition that most everyone he sees is carrying something on their shoulders that makes getting out of bed in the morning an act of courage.

What are your thoughts and feelings about the kind of steadfast love, tough love, compassionate love, that continues to do its work in the bereaved as they try to mourn fully? Does knowing that others are silently, bravely carrying their burdens as best they can give you a sense of solidarity even with the courage of strangers?

QUOTE 

“If there’s a silver lining to the emptiness, here it is: the unfillable is what brings people together. I’ve never made a friend by bragging about my strengths, but I’ve made countless by sharing my weakness and my emptiness.

-- GLENNON DOYLE MELTON, "Carry On, Warrior"

pp.89-91. Excerpted from: "Send My Roots Rain: A Companion on the Grief Journey" by Kim Langley. A collection of 60 poems with brief reflections. Published by Paraclete Press. Copyright 2019.