Sometimes I Cry

A few days ago I received an email from a friend who shared with me that something I had written made her cry. In sharing this fact with me, she gave me a gift.

I needed a gift that day; it had not been a good day. The timing of the arrival of her gift to me could not have been better.

The gift she gave me? The gift of tears. Permission to cry, to feel the pain, to allow the tears to flow and cleanse away the sadness that had been weighing heavy on my soul. To feel the empowering release of tears, to stand up to the pain and embrace life once more.

I seldom cry anymore. To anyone who points this out, I wryly suggest that perhaps I have cried so much that I’m just out of tears. I’m not. I’ve simply moved beyond the “constantly weeping widow” stage. Well beyond it. It’s now simply a place I go and visit every now and again.

Today I “visited” an old journal of mine – my writings in the year following the loss of my husband and daughter. And now I’ll share an excerpt with you:

I sat staring at my newborn, tears flooding my tired eyes. How perfect she was! She lay bundled in a soft warm blanket, tucked safely in my aching arms. Her eyes were closed, her soft dark hair brilliant against alabaster skin, her tiny fingers relaxed. I almost expected her to let out a wail of contradiction at any moment. “What plans I have made for you, my Chloe Ray” I spoke in my mind. My voice was gone, hiding somewhere as not to betray my agony. “Had,” I corrected myself. “What plans I had made.” My baby was jolted into this world too little to live, too precious to die. I had failed.