The "art" of Crying
Glistening crystal drops fall slowly down her face. They hypnotize,
They mesmerize. Slipping one by one onto her silken robe, she stands by the curtained
window, watching the drifting snow. Back perfectly straight, not a sound from her lovely
throat. Perhaps she has lost her man, her finances have crumbled..her soul bereft.
I’ve always wanted to cry like that. Having reasons to explore this condition lately, I’m
wondering if I might have a genetic defect. My tears don’t slowly slide, leaving a trail of
beauty. They roll down the back of my throat, causing sniffling, snuffling, and for want of a
better word, snot, to run from my nose. Red faced, swollen, heaving, wads of wet Kleenex at
my feet.
Well, I can’t skip rocks and I can’t be lovely when I cry. but oh, my dear I make a terrific
blueberry pie.
Copyright © Barbara Gorelick | Year Posted 2009
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