(Art by Helen Jane Hearn/ TueNight.com)
My mom cries at everything.
She called it “My Gift of Tears.” (She capitalizes it with her mouth.)
She cries at commercials, displays of affection and a solid piece of music — she always has.
I was profoundly embarrassed by it as a child. Naturally, I inherited it.
In the past three days, my tears flowed at a wedding — the entire wedding. I wept when considering the pain my friends felt when they lost their baby. Yesterday, I cried imagining myself getting the news about my dog dying. My dog is not dying any more than any of us are. Yet, tears.
The welling of feeling in my chest, the eyes filling up — it happens more frequently the older I get. I’ve learned tricks to manage it — like clearing my throat and turning my eyes skyward. They help occasionally — but in the face of a reconciliation, deep loss or commiseration, the tears still come.
My six year old cried at that same wedding. I asked her if she was okay and she replied, “I’m crying because I’m so happy for them.”
I cried even more. This time, thanks to pride. I am proud of My Gift of Tears. From mother to daughter, vulnerabilities made visible, these sympathies passed on.