My mother does not cry

I’m a crier

A watery-hearted, soft-in-the-middle crier

I routinely sob


There was a time I was embarrassed by my blubbery nature for my mother’s eyes never wet. I know she is not made of iron, but her pretence is convincing to those who do not share her blood. For a number of years I tried to be like my mother; to feel and to hide it.
To remain rooted to my path, unmoved and undeterred. To get things done.

But I am not my mother

I was not made to get things done

I was made to feel and to show it.
To empathise, sympathise and story-tell.
To listen, to grieve, to hope, to challenge, to help.


When I cry it is not always because I am hurting and my mother’s dry eyes do not always mean she is not hurting. I think she may know more hurt than I will ever realise, but who can say?


My mother does not cry.


~


Note to self: Should post more of my writings on here, even if they are late night rambled nonsense like this.