It’s no spoiler to tell you that men are different from women. I’ve been exposing Dominique to that beautiful truth for many years now.
When she sat at our kitchen table yesterday, an ordinary Tuesday, she began to cry. “I’m just so tired,” she said. For me, completely understandable. Now, men will often look at us like we’re on fire, and something must done. And it makes me laugh, because maybe they’re not so far from the truth after all, it’s just that we are built to put out our own fires, with the gentle flow of tears. Oh, those beautiful drops are always at the ready. With no need for alarms or sirens, they know when it’s time. I can hear them, mid eye-lid, “Are we going? Is it time? I’m ready, let’s go. Here we go.” And down the tears come.
My mother always called them tears of tenderness. Because they weren’t there out of anger or sadness, only comfort. The ebb and flow of life’s tide.
So often the things we fear turn out to be gifts. I like thinking that my brain tells my heart, daily, go ahead, set the world on fire, we’ve got you covered.
I have carried the remaining one or two tissues left in the pocket pack for over a year now. That means passing through three allergy seasons, yet I can’t bring myself to use them.
She followed me around for two hours, this woman from Anderson Funeral home. During the visitation before my mother’s funeral, I wept and hugged and bent and wept some more. And she was there, this small, gray haired woman, hired, certainly, but it felt sincere. It felt like she was truly there to follow my trail of tears. And she did her job well. I was never without a tissue. She began handing them one by one, and then switched from packet to packet.
I could have picked her out of a lineup that first day, but her image is fading. I don’t remember if she had glasses. I think she had glasses. She was wearing a dress. Maybe a blazer. A dress with a blazer? Lipstick for sure. She wasn’t tall. Perhaps at my shoulders. But it felt like she was lifting me.
As with all grief, supporters move on. They have to. It is natural. It is necessary. We all know it. We all know it, that is, until it’s you that is grieving. And the grief changes shape. It doesn’t require the same kind of attention. I don’t need her to follow my trail, but I need to not forget. As I watch the fading image of the gray haired woman, I bring to life the stories of my mother. And tears of pain turn to tears of tenderness, tears of joy, never to be wiped away. No, these tracks of love and laughter must remain.
I reach into my purse for my lipstick, or my signature fragrance, and I smile. I touch the tattered plastic and know that I am ok. So grateful for those who walked with me, for those who walk with me still. I mention it in hopes that these words will follow those who need it. That the stories will catch your tears, will lift your smile. And the face that follows will change from mine to yours to theirs, and we will all be there, for each other. Heart to heart. Packet to packet.
