From the Sky - Part XVIII

From the Sky - Part XVIII

By James M. O'Meara, © 2011

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Patate Fritte

Some fries with that?...

Before I tell you what happened next, I need to share something: I really don't cry very often. I keep in mind what Aunt Rae says about when one should shed tears: for births and deaths. That's it. She says people cry too easily. Perhaps. But at times I feel maybe we just don't cry enough. I know I don't.

Now, I'm not saying I never shed tears. I've had some good, hard cries here and there. I cried when I learned I would never hear again. Aunt Rae would surely call that a death: my life as a hearing person had officially ended. The sounds of my children laughing; rich music pouring from my piano on Christmas morning as I played Bach to gently wake the children; bubbling food simmering on the stove; my Joe's laughter; soda fizzing madly in a glass; my Joe's torrid but softly whispered words during a passionate embrace: for those losses, yes, I let myself cry.

I also cried when my sons were born, joyous waterworks as I looked at their tiny, fragile bodies and their scrunched up little faces. I cherish the memory of those particular tears because they were tears of joy. Those are so few in our lives, aren't they? Rare diamonds among vast, cold, dark fields of coal.

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