On the radio this morning I heard an interview with a man who had lost his son. He is a poet and he wrote an epic poem about his grief. He read part of the poem on the radio and I really liked it, so I wanted to post it here.

An excerpt from Gabriel: A Poem 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