Last week we lost a relative after he spent some time battling cancer. Jack McCarthy was my mother's cousin, although to me he seemed more like an uncle you just don't get to see that often, occasionally joining us for Thanksgiving or Christmas or some other random popping by. What made him unique was that he was a poet. He traveled the country reading at poetry slams, which I never knew existed before him, and was quite well known within the poetry community. He's got a few books of his poetry out, but it really was something to watch him perform. Boston people can truly appreciate his poem for Bill Buckner.
When I learned of his passing, I remembered an email he sent me after my father died. It included a poem that anyone might find quite comforting when facing the loss of a loved one. I thought I might share the email and the poem he sent me. The writing of mine he refers to is what I wrote about my father while he was still in the hospital and before he died, and the mention of my brother is in reference to his eulogy.
Jack McCarthy: May 23, 1939 - January 17, 2013
Dear Molly,
Thank you. Actually, Mark printed off a copy and I read it
last night. It was beautifully written; all the love was between the lines, you
never spilled over into sentimentality.
Funny: I know 20x as much about John today as I did 2 weeks
ago. He never tooted his own horn, and I think he usually had to let the dog
out a few minutes after I arrived. I mainly remember him as someone I didn’t
want to collide with on the basketball court or the football field; it was like
running into a wall. Strange to be saying even that; it must be 30 years since
we played our last game.
I’m very glad I came. I never would have appreciated the
unending line at the funeral parlor, the mob at the funeral. I would never have
had an inkling of what a remarkable guy John was.
You have a real talent for writing. There’s not a lot of
money in it, but there is a lot of satisfaction. And Johnny could be a writer/performer—but
that won’t surprise anyone.
We have followed your Iron exploits from a distance. We’re
all very proud of you—although it’s crystal clear that you didn’t get those
talents from the McLaughlin side.
You have some hard days and nights ahead of you. Following
is a poem that might bring you some consolation in the low moments. (Helen was
Carol’s mother; I wrote this for her when she lost her significant other.)
I know that you can never doubt how much you have been
loved.
Jack
The
Spaces Between
for
Helen
It hurts
when
love dies.
When love is deep,
it
hurts deeply—
more deeply maybe than you thought
anything
would ever hurt
again.
But with time,
the spaces between the moments
when it hurts
get longer,
the moments themselves become
less
devastating,
till eventually you come to
associate them
with
a sad sweetness
that has as much in common
with love
as it does with grief.
I will not say
Don’t
grieve for me—
do I look like Saint Francis?
But I wish you long
spaces in
between,
and may you carry into them
all of that
sweetness,
and only enough sadness to attest
the risk that’s being taken
by everyone who
loves you.
Every time we love, we’re saying
Let
it ride,
and what’s on the table
is
the rent money.
And every time we stride again
out into the crisp desert night
our fists shoved deep into empty
pockets
we know ourselves for losers.
But, Jesus,
what brave losers
we are.
I wish you this too,
for the spaces in
between,
this bravery.
