Tears

I read once that all my tears are collected and recorded, counted and kept safe. If that’s the case my jar is probably close to empty, a thin salty layer evaporating into nothing. I haven’t added to it in what seems like forever and to me that feels normal but to others not so much. I tell people that it’s not the way I function; that my sorrows are expressed differently and that’s true for the most part. It’s also true that on the occasions when my chin begins to quiver and the lump rises in my throat, I fight to hold it in. I’m afraid to let a few loose, knowing that if I do it would take a small army to pull me back together and I hate that feeling of not being in control, weakness. And, to be quite honest, I’ve never felt like my tears were important enough. The majority of the ones I’ve cried have been over held back anger and my bruised ego, certainly not something to be cherished.

However, the ones that fell swiftly from my eyes last night were different. Instead of being accompanied by short breaths and sniffles their only companion was silence. They made hot streams along my cheeks and eventually pooled on the red Egyptian cotton of my pillowcase as I tried to find my sleep. Normally I would have mulled it over, dissecting all the reasons causing me to feel this way but I didn’t need to.  I knew these were tears of deep sorrow and repentance; born out of a tired heart.  I didn’t fight it and the minutes accumulated quickly, however, I knew that they were serving as a lullaby of sorts. I don’t know which came first the ceasing of my tears or my dreamless slumber but as I awoke this morning a single tear escaped each eye and then they were gone with as little fanfare as when they arrived.

Those tears, the hot silent variety, are the ones worth cherishing. 

Untitled... for now.

She was beautiful. Her silver hair framed her face just right. She had deep lines around her face from years of laughter, her best feature in my opinion. Her laugh was deep and hearty, such a big surprise coming from such a small woman. I remember her laugh as if she were sitting next to me laughing right now. It revealed such a deep joy. She had big, strong hands and was proud of the ability to palm a basketball at the age of 70 (my hero.) She often wore pearls and always told me that you shouldn’t wait for a special occasion to wear them. I wore hers on my wedding day. She was the most kind and compassionate person I ever knew. She wasn’t supposed to have favorites but it was clear that I was hers. We were the best of friends. We spent nearly every Wednesday during summer exchanging candy between fits of laughter and mischief. She would bring me an apple pie, my favorite, and I would buy her some disgusting boston baked beans or burnt peanuts, her favorite. Amidst our laughter we had many conversations about life, faith, friendships and anything else. She shared all sorts of wisdom with me, like, never withhold a compliment, always be kinder than necessary to someone in need and always tell someone when you love them. I heard her say those three words more times than I could ever count and never once did I question her sincerity. I try to live up to those things as best as I can. I realize I remember only the best version of her. Mom says she swore like a sailor but I secretly like to chalk that up into my favorite things about her as well. Even when she had surgeries to fix her back and other things, I still thought she was invincible.

I walked into the kitchen one hot summer morning. I’d slept terrible and hadn’t bothered to change out of my oversized pajamas. Everyone was sitting around the kitchen table looking somber. It was obvious they all knew something I didn’t; either that or I was in trouble again. They had all known for awhile, since the night before when my entire extended family had been over mourning together, when I had obliviously retreated to my upstairs bedroom to play obnoxious music and be a moody teenager. No one could bear to come get me, fearing what my reaction would be. Mom refused to look at me, so I laughed at all of them and sarcastically remarked, “Who died?” Dad looked up and told me, his voice shaking and his eyes full of big sloppy tears. It felt like someone had emptied all the air out of my lungs and I gasped loudly between sobs as I beat my dad’s chest calling him a liar.  I cried until it felt like my tear ducts had dried up; until all I could do was sleep. It was the first time I ever felt broken, the first time that I couldn’t think of anything to do to mend myself and I mourned for a long time. I refused to acknowledge the reality and I haphazardly masked the pain I felt. It took a long time but I healed and eventually grasped on to reality and tried to start walking in direction that she so often instructed me.

On Christmas Eve we watched home movies. It wasn’t until I heard her laugh half-way through that I realized she had been filming. She was laughing at my hopeless attempt to steer a go kart around the kiddy track at Okoboji and cheering me on. Hearing her laugh on tape was the best gift this year. I’ve recalled it to mind often since then as I did this morning on my drive to work.  It brings forth stronger emotions than I’m sometimes ready for but I love it, it’s the best sound.

I've Always Loved the Rain

The air was thick on a hot July night;

the cool raindrops fell from the sky,

making small puddles on my sticky bare skin.

I imagined them to be tears since I couldn’t muster any of my own.

I still love the rain.

You may have ruined me, but you didn’t ruin that.

Tea Time with Charles

We sit, most days in the afternoon sipping the hot concoction I’ve brewed in my fancy tea contraption. I like all kinds of tea, Snow monkey plum, Madagascar vanilla, Indian chai, cream caramel rooibos, but Charles prefers just green (with a packet of Splenda). He always tries my brews and comments on their deliciousness although sometimes I can tell he is just being polite. We talk about all sorts of things, Charles and I. We talk about the news, his friends, my friends, his wife, my husband, the sermons we have been listening to and any other thing that comes to mind. He shares tidbits of wisdom from the nearly half a century he has up on me. That’s right, he is 72 and I am 23. Some days it feels like we are the same age making mischief and giggling (our banter is quite hilarious), needing to be scolded by our manager, and some days he is much older and reminiscent of my grandfather. I’d like to think I soak up our time as if each memory and anecdote shared were rare and precious. I can feel my eyes widen and my mouth drop whenever he starts a story with “when I worked at NASA.” I think it’s so cool. 

Sometimes he blows me away with the information he possesses and I relish the opportunity to teach him a new trick on the computer. He calls me “baby” which I’ve grown quite fond of and speaks tenderly when he sees that I’m upset. Occasionally he has been the reason for my discomfort based on things he has said to sharpen me; things that I foolishly brush aside with my defensive, harsh attitude.

Every once in awhile he gives me a big hug, which is inappropriate in the business world, but Charles doesn’t care. Yesterday was one of those days. It was nearing 4:30 and I walked over to say goodnight to Charles (he laughs every time I call him that because he has always been known as Chuck.) I turn to leave and he says “you know I haven’t always been known as Chuck either.” I replied with an inquisitive, “really?” excited for a story. He proceeded to tell me how he was really Charles Jr. which his mother detested so he went by his middle name Leonard which eventually got shorted to Lynn. I laughed at the idea of him being called Leonard and Lynn. We both put on our coats and he started to walk me out to my car. As we were walking he whispered, “And once I had a nickname that I sometimes use for passwords… Chucklynn.” We both chuckled at the idea. He then grew solemn and continued with a story about the only person that ever referred to him as Chucklin’. His story was sad. This friend (whom he worked with at NASA) was full of life and energy in his early forties when one day they found out he had bone cancer and two weeks later he was gone. I hung my head in sadness and Chuck continued, “No one else has ever called me that but it would be okay if you did.” As I sorted through the emotions of that statement I looked up to see two big tears unashamedly running down Charles’ face and he gave me a big hug. We parted with goodnights and this morning I returned to work as usual. I was greeted with a warm hello from Charles who I greeted back with a “Good morning Chucklin” and a wink. This afternoon we will have tea and I can hardly wait.