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I thought when I was little adults did not cry.
“They are strong and brave and unafraid.”
Such I believed ’til my ninth birthday was nigh.

I awoke one morning with a pain in my chest.
“Best take you to the doctor,” Mother said.
Until she did, I knew she would not rest

The doctor poked and prodded, head to toe.
Then he turned to Mother, his voice somber
“Something’s askew, you need to know.”

Mom’s voice trembled as she said “tell me.”
“It’s his heart.  Surgery may be needed.”
There were tears in her eyes, hurtful to see.

“If it’s what I think it is, it’s a real concern.”
Mother’s face was ashen, wholly overtaken.
“Tests are needed, my findings to confirm.”

“Be in my office next Thursday at four,
in the meantime, give him plenty of rest.”
'Twas a week away for Mother to worry more.

Each night she came to me eyes all red
and with tears flowing, feared I’d die.
It was then that I knew there in my bed.
that adults do unavoidably, inevitably cry.

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