Older now.
I find myself in moments when I know I should be crying, but I’m not.
I wonder. I worry. I shrug it off.
Too busy.
Too busy to feel deeply?
Who knows.
I shrug it off.
My ability to exist is a miracle.
My
ability
to exist
is
a miracle.
Keep fighting. Don’t let them see you cry.
Don’t. cry.
Another murder. Black people are being murdered.
Again and again.
No justice. No peace.
My stomach churns.
No tears.
Where
is
the
healing?
Where is the humanity?
Where is the love?
My
ability
to exist
is
a miracle.
My therapist asked why.
I sat quietly and remembered the time my Mom and I agreed not to say goodbye when she left me at my dorm in college. We had made a pact. At a point when things seemed to be somewhat settled, she would sneak away to the car and wait for my Dad and my sister to say goodbye to me. We agreed that saying goodbye would be too hard. We were worried we’d start crying and not be able to stop.
She allowed my question to hang in the air. It dangled.
What if I can’t stop crying?
“Sara, no one has ever died of crying. You will stop.”
Feeling.
Healing.
Crying.
And still fighting, with salty tears dried up in the creases of my smile lines.
My
ability
to feel
is
my birthright.
my miracle.
