On Crying

The refrigerator hums over the silence. My reflection, transparent on the glass coffee table, stares back at me. My eyes are pools of oil, but somehow beyond petroleum. A bubble strains against my chest and rises into my throat. It hovers there as I try to think tragic thoughts, then it fades into summer darkness. No tears come.

Until recently men were not supposed to cry, tears being the enemy of reason, a problem instead of a solution, potential aggression wasted. It's hard to hunt while crying. It's hard to cry while hunting.

Now, however, a family's greatest danger is the tyrant within -- a concealed mental illness exploding a payload of unexpressed emotions. Only a fragile and selfish man equates tears with weakness. A strong man cries to prove his excess of strength and his ability to thrive in a more emotionally nuanced world.

I must let tears cleanse my face and give pain its respect. Sometimes I need help crying. It's work to get to those emotions. There are blockages. So I pour myself a gin and tonic. The ice cracks. I squirt the lime slice at my eyes and miss. On the couch, I drink deeply. My iPod plays "America." Ah, Paul Simon, I too am empty and aching and I don't know why.

I've lost many people who I loved and who loved me, some for years, some for just a day or a tender night. Some I chased away and some just disappeared. They're gone forever and so am I as I used to be. Forever. Those simple happy days will not return. Never.

A warm wet wave rises. My throat catches. Huzzah! I sob, and salty poison drips from my eyes and nose. It stops being poison when it hits the air. I'm lighter already. I am. A little more of this and I could seduce a cloud and make it rain, sticky umbrellas everywhere.
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