The flowing starts the minute she says his name, as if the dam operator opened the gates.
“I’m so sorry,” she says through her cascading tears. “I thought I’d cried every last one I had, but obviously I still have more.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “This is the place for tears. Let them out; they’re good for your skin.”
I don’t know if it is really true that tears are good for your skin, but I remember someone telling me that after Peter died. They told me my tears would help me look younger. At that point, I didn’t really care how I looked – old or young – but I’d laughed just the way the young widow in my office just did.
“How long has it been for you?” I ask her.
“Six weeks,” she responds. “I thought I’d be better now, but the tears just keep on coming.”
I hand her my Kleenex box. “And they’ll keep on coming for the rest of your life, too. Not as often, no, but here and there – infrequently – they’ll show up. A memory, a smell, a song, the touch of something familiar, even someone else’s tears used to set me off. I’m better now, but I’m nowhere near done crying. ”
She looks at me with longing in her eyes. She wants me to comfort her; they all do. “How long ago did your husband die?” she bravely asks me.
"Oh, I've never been married, dear.” I tell her. “Peter was my rabbit.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says through her cascading tears. “I thought I’d cried every last one I had, but obviously I still have more.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “This is the place for tears. Let them out; they’re good for your skin.”
I don’t know if it is really true that tears are good for your skin, but I remember someone telling me that after Peter died. They told me my tears would help me look younger. At that point, I didn’t really care how I looked – old or young – but I’d laughed just the way the young widow in my office just did.
“How long has it been for you?” I ask her.
“Six weeks,” she responds. “I thought I’d be better now, but the tears just keep on coming.”
I hand her my Kleenex box. “And they’ll keep on coming for the rest of your life, too. Not as often, no, but here and there – infrequently – they’ll show up. A memory, a smell, a song, the touch of something familiar, even someone else’s tears used to set me off. I’m better now, but I’m nowhere near done crying. ”
She looks at me with longing in her eyes. She wants me to comfort her; they all do. “How long ago did your husband die?” she bravely asks me.
"Oh, I've never been married, dear.” I tell her. “Peter was my rabbit.”
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