I FellSlowly

One of my heroes died last week.

From the first time I heard “Falling Slowly,” Glen Hansard’s music captured me. His songs have topped my playlist for years. Other artists I have admired have died, but what surprised me this time was the depth of my grief.

He died an ocean away. He had no idea who I was. I only saw him perform once on a father-and-son trip to Minneapolis in 2022.

During COVID, I got to know him better through his livestreams. I watched every performance I could find and knew his lyrics by heart. That night in Minneapolis, I sat beside my son among people who loved the same person and music.

I had heard art described as a verb, something that changes both the creator and the person experiencing it. Art as participatory. That night, I felt it more than I ever had before.

As I tried to understand this strange sadness, I realized I had come to think of Glen as a brother.

Years ago, I met a couple who were mourning their retriever. They did not have children, and she had been with them for 16 years. Their sadness was deeper and lasted longer than I thought it should.

Then I lost Gilberto, the dog my father left behind.

I am beginning to understand that grief is as individual as our favorite sno-ball or the memories stirred by our paw-paw’s tomato plants.

Maybe Glen was the best kind of brother to have. Someone I could project my ideals onto and whose lyrics I could interpret until they fit just right. He stayed perfect.

I suppose our pets are much the same.

The relationship may have existed through the art, but the connection was real. So was the sadness.

Take this sinking boat and point it home
We’ve still got time
Raise your hopeful voice, you had a choice,
You’ve made it now

I miss my brother.