And Then I Cry . . .

What is it that gives you pause to cry?  Is it ducks on a pond?  Is it birds in the blue sky?  Cute kittens?  What is it?

Lying awake, listening to the radio that I use as “white noise” the other night (that obviously wasn’t working, that night), I began thinking about the act of crying and why it occurs.  For me.  I know that some of my crying occurs when I am so frustrated with a situation that I think I cannot change what is happening.  I cannot make some move to send a happening onto a different track.  NOTHING I can do will help.  Then I cry.

And, then, there are other times.

It may start with a television commercial.  One that includes babies.  Like the St. Jude’s commercial with the babies (one of the charities I am fortunate to support).  Babies who, through no fault of their own, have developed a cancer somewhere in their little bodies. Babies who reach out and hug the doctor or nurse into whose care they have been placed, and who, it is hoped, will save their lives.  Babies who, when placed close enough to each other, reach out to kiss the other baby in the frames.  Every time I see that commercial that I know is meant to gather contributions from the viewing audience, I cry.

In the same way, the commercial, also meant to inspire the audience to send funds, shows rescue workers collecting abused, frightened, shivering, and terrified animals to take them to shelters.  It’s then that I gather my own little white, mischievous, sometimes ornery, little Lady and hug her.  And, then, I cry.

My grands live two or three days away from where I do.  I think about the things I’ve missed as they have grown up.  School activities, birthdays and other celebrations, making clothing for them, reading stories to them.  Talking with them every day or so.  I have had the privilege of being with them for some months, and, yet, that has not been enough.  I know that their mom and dad have done everything they can to provide many of those wanted activities.  I know that we live where our job is.  But, still as I think about this, missing these things, it makes me cry.

When I look at the back of my hands – at the darkness just under the skin.  Skin that looks as thought someone has taken a hammer to the back of my hands.  People sometimes ask, and I tell them.  I have skin that is incredibly fragile and that tears easily.  When one of “my” dogs (I am privileged to care for friends’ dogs when they leave town) puts her paw on my hand, her toenail sometimes accidently tears the skin,  Or, I slam my hand in the door and the skin tears.  First, I usually use some expletives deleted.  Then, I follow the same routine, each time.  I wash the wound with soap and water, dry it off with paper, put an antibiotic on the wound, and use a large band-aid after cutting away the sides of the adhesive so that the air can reach the wound.  And, then, I cry.

I think about the friends that have left this vail of tears during this past year.  Paul from the Three Ravens in New Mexico.  Dear Marion – one of the kindest women I’ve ever met.  Dolores – sweet woman who taught handicapped children in high school.  Ken – who was my source of antique glass and cabinets; and who was a good friend  .  I cannot pick up the phone and talk with any of them.  I cannot write a letter or e-mail to them.  And, I cry.

I look out at the snow.  Snow on the bushes, the sidewalk, and driveway.  Snow that Larry always removed with his beloved snow blower.  Snow that kind neighbors now clear.  And, I cry.

I watch the television reports about Ukraine.  The harm being inflicted by this man “who would be king.”  It is too hard to watch very long  The babies. The refugees.  The bombings.  The destroyed lives and the need to rebuild them.  I turn to another channel.  And, I cry.

I try and try to make my house look like someone lives here.  Someone who cares about the house and, at the same time, needs to prepare minutes for meetings, make meals, eat, answer mail and e-mail, write checks, attend zoom meetings and writing classes, go to the market, take care of the car and clothing, care for the dog and Russian tortoise, write poetry, the blog, and children’s literature, etc., etc, etc.  I don’t seem to be able to make the house look cared for.  It’s as though someone else lives here.  Or, nobody really lives here.  It’s been more than four years.  And, when I think about this apparent lack of caring, I cry.

I watch television in the room in my house that I call the “TV Room,” because, cleverly enough, it has the main TV set.  Something will come on the TV that is funny – really funny!  I think Larry would love to see this.

And, then, I cry.

Be Safe and Be Well.

The Cranky Crone

Thoughtful comments are appreciated.