Sometimes, I think, he likes to see me cry.
Sometimes it feels like he does it on purpose. Then, other times, in the tumbling waves of our turbulent conversations a topic comes up and grasps me; unaware.
This particular topic never fails to leave me a mess. I am unable to completely control the tear flow. I cry, looking away from him, from my stone lady in whom I almost always seek solace. I look out the glass door to the parking lot, watching people drive to separate lives from mine. Yet, he never looks away from me.
Never. Not when my voice starts to break. Not when tear after tear eeks out of my eyes and slide across my cheeks. Not when they run down my neck before I can grab a tissue to blot them. Not when they hang, like chandeliers of sadness, from my bottom lashes. He waits and editorializes. He waits and listens. If I look away, when I look back, he is still looking at me.
He shoots straight. He doesn’t lie and tell me my pain could be worse. He doesn’t tell me to just be thankful for this day. He doesn’t say that these are all things of the past, and the past belongs in the past. If I cry once, or twelve times in our 60 minutes of soul excavation, his presence for nothing more than my benefit lends creedence.
Lends creedence to what hurts in me. What is old and scarred or fresh and raw, or tender combinations of both. I do not have to apologize for feeling a mess, yet I always do.
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
This process will eventually be completely about what you want, right now it’s about what you need.
“I think I’ve been entirely too teary,” I sniffled into my tissue.
No, Christine. I think you’ve been just the right amount.