The American poet Edward Hirsch wrote a poem about his only son who died of a seizure after taking drugs at a party. He was twenty-one. Hirsch is asked what his son would make of the poem about him.
“You can’t answer what your son would make of a poem about him because your son is not there . . . A lot of my friends have been reassuring about this in that they say Gabriel’s personality comes through. Gabriel was not a shrinking violet, he imposed himself on a room. He wanted people to know him.
I am also aware that there are things he didn’t like to talk about and wouldn’t have wanted known, but which are also part of his story. If you tell his story without talking about his disabilities, which he was embarrassed about, you wouldn’t be telling his story. He had all these tics, for example, which he didn’t like to acknowledge; but he had turned all those things quite triumphantly into a working person. It is me telling the story of Gabriel as a father. You go ahead because it is what you think is accurate.”
Tim Adams interview with Edward Hirsch, “Many of us carry the dead around with us. We shouldn’t feel ashamed of that.’ 14 Sept 2014, The Guardian