He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother.
We’ve all heard the song
In all its shades and voices
And we’ve gotten the message
Inscribed in that sentiment.
But some of us heard it
Long before its plangent
Delivery by a rock star.
My own brother and I
Growing up not far from
Father Flanagan’s Boy’s Town,
A place we might have been,
If not for a father and mother,
A fact I was sometimes thankful for,
And sometimes not.
The image, a boy walking,
Carrying a smaller boy on his back,
And speaking to a hidden presence:
He ain’t heavy, father, he’s my brother.
I could never quite imagine my own brother,
Two years older and many years wiser,
Taking on such a burden.
Heavy. As in That’s heavy, man.
Speech for hipsters, wannabes,
A strange, distant world.
Hidden by certain words, gestures,
Accouterments of being without
Familiar shape and substance.
In the company of those who appreciated
All that was foreign to parents
And unconscious siblings, he would
Acknowledge my presence with a
Smile curved in mischief and say
He aint’ heavy, he’s my brother.
And feeling uncertain though grateful
For the acknowledgment,
I would allow my own small smile
To twitch at the corners of my mouth.
© Dennis Hathaway
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