Tears... and Why They Come.

It was not quite 11 in the morning, and I was sitting alone in a coffeeshop on the High Street, crying. Tears were leaving little tracks down my cheeks. It was the second time I cried since I got up this morning.

The reason I was crying was standing outside the window of the shop. She was maybe 18 months old, her hair a peach fuzz of blonde against her skull. Her mummy and daddy were standing on either side of her. I didn't know who she was, and I knew that I would never see her again. It didn't matter, because it was not really HER that made my eyes pour tears, but what she had done.

They walked up beside me, one parent on either side. She was walking by herself between them, you see; possibly one of her first experiences with the freedom of not having to hold hands. Abruptly she stopped and reached for them, and I thought, "Ah... she is ready to touch base again." They both reached down for her hands, one each, and tried to pull her along, but she didn't budge. She grabbed their hands, and put them together. She didn't want to hold their hands: she wanted THEM to hold hands with each other. And when they did, she smiled and clapped her hands and started walking again. Her world was happy. Her parents were holding hands.

I don't know why this 30 second exchange made me cry. It was so sweet. It was endearing and my heart ached. "Maybe this just shows that I'm sensitive today," I thought.

The first time I cried this morning was equally as silly. I was lying in bed next to Stephen, and we were taking our time waking up, just holding onto each other and sharing thoughts and other random bits. I told him about an image I had last night before bed that made me feel slightly sad and lonely and needing of him. I write him a journal, you see. I have for quite a while. And it is a very personal thing, to write to him like that. The image was of me, much older, writing in his journal... writing in the last journal he had ever bought for me, because he had died and I was alone.

I imagined that I wrote in his journals long past while he was here to read it. That I just kept writing to him, going through them one at a time, until I was almost done with the very last one he had ever bought... and it made me sad. It makes me sad just writing about it now. It brings tears to my eyes writing about it. And when I told him, I couldn't help myself, but started to cry. And he pulled me deeper into his arms and held me while I sobbed, called me his silly girl and loved me.

I don't know why I am so sensitive today.