Tears

The first time I saw my father cry was December of 1955.  Our family had been out Christmas shopping and visiting Santa Claus. We’d just walked in the door when Dad headed to the hallway.  I didn’t hear the phone ring, but Dad came back through the living room after a short phone conversation and said, “Pa died today.”  He walked out on the front porch to be alone, and I saw him wipe his eyes.

Grandpa Tebo had fallen and broken his hip.  He’d been in the hospital about two-weeks and developed pneumonia.  That’s what killed him.

A few days later, I saw Dad cry again.  We were gathered in the funeral home, and he walked into the single stall restroom tucked under a set of stairs. He wanted to be alone.  I saw him reach for his handkerchief and wipe his eyes as he closed the door behind him.  I thought to myself, “he doesn’t want anyone to see”.   I was eight years old, had cried plenty of times myself, but this was the first time I saw someone cry because they were sad.  It’s a different kind of cry.  It starts in your soul and eases its way out.

I didn’t see him cry again for decades.  I know he did.  I just didn’t see him.  The tears I did see came much later in life and were triggered by an assortment of emotions.  Sadness was high on the list.  He was a happy man, easy to get along with, and everyone liked him.  He became sad when he thought about the suffering of others.  We call that empathy.

I’ve had my share of tears lately.  They come less often as the months and weeks have passed.  My tears are the “come from your soul” type.  They ease out while listening to music on the car radio, when I read entries from Ruth’s journals or find notes she’s written, and sometimes when I write.

I joined a writer’s group in The Villages and each member has the opportunity to read a story they’ve written.  We read to the group, and the assembled members critique each piece.  I’ve learned to avoid stories that mention Ruth, as more often than not, my words get caught in my throat as I try to avoid the accompanying tears.  I take a deep breath, try to calm my nerves, but I just choke on the words.

I have friends that share my grief. I spent part of the weekend with several. We talked about our families and shared both happy and troublesome news.  All families have stories to share, but we don’t always have someone we trust to share them with.  Luckily, I do.

I did find myself choking back tears a time or two while talking about Ruth, but that’s ok.  They understand and have choked on tears of their own.

For those who may be concerned about my frankness, don’t be.  Tears, like laughter, are a part of life.  We hold them both in our soul and they come out as needed.  They make us human, and without one, the other might not be so special.