Extract A
Relatives were lowering my mother into the ground when my father implored the crowd to sing ‘Amazing Grace’ for the third time.
It was a fairly typical move for him. An over-the-top request that couldn’t be turned down in the most uncomfortable of moments. The priest, who had already told everyone to go and serve the Lord, was caught off guard. He froze and put his hands up like he was being held at gunpoint. And so, the people sang.
Before they could start the second verse, my father interrupted and told them to sing the song again. My father was not only getting people to sing ‘Amazing Grace’ over and over again – he was only singing the one verse he knew. The first one with the ‘how sweet the sound’ bit. He didn’t know the six other verses. I wasn’t sure he knew the song even had other verses. But other people did. And when they tried to continue singing the song properly, he had them start over so they could sing the part he liked.
Some mourners paused. A few of them looked at each other to make sure they would not be singing alone. The others, especially those in my mother’s more cynical family, did not appreciate being made to sing. They wanted all of this to be over and my father was prolonging the pain.
Also, it was cold for May. And I was in shock.
‘Everyone, please,’ my father said, leaving his place next to us by the dark hole in New Jersey. ‘One more time. Please.’
Valentina leaned over to me.
‘Are you going to do something about this?’ she asked.
Fewer people were singing. Most were hanging their heads, exhausted. Titi Diana, my mother’s sister, looked at her watch and around the cemetery, expecting that there would be a long line of people waiting to bury their own dead behind us. I saw her mouth the words ‘Come on’. Even Abuelita, who stopped speaking English the minute she left Brooklyn and moved back to Puerto Rico, could tell something was not right.
‘We can’t just let him humiliate himself out there,’ Valentina said.
‘This is what a broken man looks like. Let the people see it. Remember it. Write poems about it.’
Valentina looked at me like she wanted me to tell me to lighten up, but she couldn’t. Not today, when we knew there would never be light again.
‘Once more. Please . . .’
Extract B
At dawn in the small station of Fabriano, in a stuffy and smoky second-class carriage came in a bulky woman in deep mourning, behind her followed her husband—a tiny man; thin and weakly, looking shy and uneasy.
As they sat, the woman gradually began to quietly sob. The husband, feeling it necessary, explained to his traveling companions that the poor woman was to be pitied for the war was taking away from her her only son to the front line, a boy of twenty. One of passengers, who had been listening with particular attention, said:
“You should thank God that your son is only leaving now for the front. I have two sons and three nephews at the front.”
“Maybe, but in our case, it is our only son,” ventured the husband.
“What difference can it make? Parental love is not like bread that can be broken to pieces and split amongst the children in equal shares. A father gives all his love to each one of his children without discrimination. If I am suffering now for my two sons, I am not suffering half for each of them but double…” said another.
“True…true…” sighed the embarrassed husband, “but suppose a father has two sons and he loses one of them, there is still one left to console him…while…”
“Yes,” answered the other, “a son left to console him but also a son left for whom he must survive, while in the case of the father of an only son if the son dies the father can die too. Which of the two positions is worse? Don’t you see how my case would be worse than yours?”
Another traveler interrupted, a fat man with bloodshot eyes of the palest gray. “Nonsense. Do we give life to our own children for our own benefit?”
The one who had had his son at the front since the first day of the war sighed: “You are right. Our children do not belong to us, they belong to the country…”
“Bosh,” retorted the fat traveler. “Do we think of the country when we give life to our children? Our sons are born because they must be born and when they come to life they take our own life with them. We belong to them but they never belong to us. Now, at our age, the love of our Country is still great, of course, but stronger than it is the love of our children. Is there any one of us here who wouldn’t gladly take his son’s place at the front if he could?”
There was a silence all round, everybody nodding as to approve.
Extract C
Three years ago, I stood on the edge of a dirt road in front of wide open plains, tears streaming down my face. I caught the rustle of dried leaves dancing in the wind and the faint sound of cars. But in my head, all I could hear was, ‘Please don’t let the right things pass me by. Please don’t let the right things pass me by. Please don’t let the right things pass me by.’
Because in the years preceding, I had experienced much and was no stranger to hardship. At a major crossroads in my life after my mother had died, I felt lost. Disconnected, disoriented, scared. I had come to learn that the world could trick you into believing stories about who you are and where you fit.
In my most desperate times that year, I had one reprieve: long drives into rural Melbourne. On those drives, the road would morph into nothing more than an unpaved gravel track, but I’d savour the crunch of the loose rocks under my tires. I’d spend an hour in my car, driving until I felt I’d gone far enough. Finally, I’d stop on a hilltop and open my car door to the most magnificent views of open farmland. Like an infinite patchwork quilt of green and brown, the sun-kissed landscape would glow orange as I’d stay till dusk, staring at the horizon.
Further in the distance, you could see where bushfires had previously ripped through the surrounds, leaving nothing but charred remains in their wake. But if you looked a bit closer, you could see the faintest patches of green, sprouting from the ash.
On one particular day, I found myself there again, looking at those partially blackened pastures. I had been driving, crying – rinsing and repeating – but felt peaceful when I arrived at my favourite spot to retreat to. As the sun sank low, its final kisses of light falling on the land, I was particularly captivated by patches of rich remarkable green emerging in an otherwise dried landscape.
I walked away from that scene with a renewed confidence in not only the future, but in myself – reminded of the truth of my nature and all that I am.
No matter how decimated you might feel your inner landscape is, today, you are ready to nurture your first sprouts of green.
Extract D
I’m sitting in my therapy room across from a young woman. She is relaxed in the chair, her arms open and loosely moving as she speaks to me. A transformation from the tension and nerves of her first session; the grief that once consumed her was now the catalyst for change and rebirth. We have only had a dozen appointments. She looks into my eyes and starts to nod and smile as she says, ‘You know what? I know it’s going to be hard, but I know I can do it.’
My eyes sting and I swallow. The smile sweeps across every muscle in my face. She has felt the shift and, now, so have I. She came into this room, some time ago, fearful of the world and everything she had to face. Pervasive self-doubt led her to feel dread for every new change and challenge. She left therapy that day with her head held a little higher. Not because of me. I have no magical ability to heal anyone or change their life. She had not needed years of therapy that unraveled her childhood. In this situation, as in many others, the major part of my role was as an educator. I passed on insights about what the science says and what has worked for others. Once she understood and started using the concepts and skills, a transformation began. She felt hope for the future. She started to believe in her own strength. She started dealing with difficult situations and the grief of losing her parents in healthy new ways. Each time she did, confidence in her ability to cope grew a bit more.
Read the four extracts below on the topic of grief.
Choose the option (A, B, C or D) which you think best answers the question.
Which extract...