The Tears that Spill

I grew up in a household without a lot of crying. When my Mom cried, it made me uncomfortable because it was usually when she was hurt by my Dad. When my Dad cried, it was usually because there was a news special about the Vietnam War, and since he has never dealt with what he endured over there, I was uncomfortable with his tears.

Me--I cry sometimes for no good reason. I cry for my marriage and all its fragile shards, I cry at movies and TV shows and any possible story line that relates to teen pregnancy, I cry when I am so tired at night that my bones even hurt and then I feel guilty for having "internal complaints" and then I cry out of that shame and guilt. I cry at really good books, and sometimes feel silly sitting by myself with a closed book on my lap, bawling. I didn't cry when I had my children, but I did cry when I got married (I try not to read too much into that one!)

This blog was prompted actually not by me crying, but by Eva crying. Yesterday, she was crying about something, and as I scooped to pick her up and kiss her face, I tasted her tears. The sensation of it surprised me, and I couldn't remember any other instance I had ever tasted anyone's tears. It struck me as something unusual, but good. In a motherly way, it felt natural to "lick up her wounds", but on a deeper level, it felt like I did something few people would ever do for her, for me, for anyone.