I never used to cry at things. Anything, really, save for the occasional wound, a broken arm, or the vicious retribution of my brother.
I saw "Gone With the Wind" when I was eleven, and sat in relative ambivalence to Scarlett's tribulations. When I looked over, my mom wore a red-eyed, puffy faced expression of grief at which I snickered.
My mom has always been the quintessential crier. Movies, beauty, love, songs, trees. She cries. It is not a woeful cry, or a longing, but rather a tribute to God. A thank you; this is all I have.
Silly mom, I always thought with a twinge of guilt. Wait... Should I be doing that?
And then I did.
It started when I was eighteen. It was not a particularly special occasion that prompted my graceful tears of quiet awe. Just nothing and everything.
And now I, too, am a crier. Like my mom, my tears are prompted by the smallest details of day to day life. The things that do not demand my attention, but wait patiently to be noticed. The things that hint at a bigger picture.
I don't hide my tears like I used to. I've been embarrassed. I've been laughed at. But what can I do but say, "thank you. this is all I have."
