Her son killed himself today. And I want to hate him. This boy who chose for his family. But why? Why hate him? What would hate bring but deeper sorrow? I saw a child in the details. I did. And what mother would deny a child grace?
We make grief a ceremony. Give it rites. Method. Blot out the light. Shear your hair. Ululate. Sing to the dead. Remember.
However you find solace, that is what I wish you. Grass on bare feet, light through the leaves, dogs baying at train whistles, kisses, hands at your back.
Sometimes I wish for something to pray to. And there is only language. And all that it fails to express.
Here’s one of Jack Gilbert’s finest poems, “Michiko Dead”
He manages like somebody carrying a box
that is too heavy, first with his arms
underneath. When their strength gives out,
he moves the hands forward, hooking them
on the corners, pulling the weight against
his chest. He moves his thumbs slightly
when the fingers begin to tire, and it makes
different muscles take over. Afterward,
he carries it on his shoulder, until the blood
drains out of the arm that is stretched up
to steady the box and the arm goes numb. But now
the man can hold underneath again, so that
he can go on without ever putting the box down.
They are wrapped in sleep, the dogs chewing cud, the circled cat, the girl in a partial tuck. The National plays much too loudly from the next room. And you have been awake forever. More than an hour. In the dark. With your dreams in the satchel of your head. Swarming. You worry for someone you have never met. For her sadness. You know, already, of her sadness. Too much grief. Why is there so much grief? We were made for joy. For card games late at night. For the story that goes on and on and ends in full-throated laughter.
And wherever you are, know that I am keeping vigil with you. And wish you peace.
