I have heard and seen my mom cry many a times in the last 40 years. I’ve been responsible for some of her tears.
This past weekend she broke down long-distance on the phone but her sobs were much different from those I’ve witnessed…but still recognized. From a file buried deep in my memory bank I recalled a moment of sadness of hers from over 30 years ago. Late one night I awoke and heard some rustling near my bed. We hadn’t had power for days and I had come accustomed to the darkness so I spotted her faint silhouette quickly. There in her cot she cried. It was silent but distinct and I got the feeling that if my sisters were not sleeping nearby it would have been much much louder.
Last Sunday on the phone this woman I’ve known all my life tried her hardest not to crack but couldn’t help herself. Her Mexico house has intermittent power, my grandmother (who she’s caring after) had a hard fall, she got some odd news from a doctor, there’s no water readily available to her neighborhood and a boy up the street from her died when a light-pole fell. The weight of all this is resting heavy on her shoulders and she had to reach out somehow.
It was hard to hear her. Harder to know that all I could do was just listen and give her what little reassurances I could. I feel like I did that night when I was a kid…not able to help my mom when she needs me most.