On a gorgeous, sun soaked July afternoon, the haunting cries from next door echoed a poignant faintness.  The crying tears of a stranger made their way on a cool breeze to my vacationing ears, and it was the last thing I expected, or wanted.  More sadness and pain, albeit someone else’s, interrupted my pleasantries, a good book, the sun turning me to medium rare, and the incredible view of Provincetown harbor, all from our home away from home this week. My heart and mind paused to take in the sadness as if I were an interloper, eavesdropping on a personal sorrow.  But was it sadness that I was overhearing?  The memory of a loved one lost to eternity long ago, or a fresh wound perhaps?  As the minutes passed, I tried to recognize the sign posts, the soft sounds of emotional release more muted than hysterical.

These were not the heaving bellows of a messy breakup or recent divorce, the newness of those traumas would surely cause a more audible upheaval.  Nor were they tears of joy, cried through smiling eyes, with cheeks feeling a slight cramp from the broadness and frequency of muscles elongating into that recognizable, universal symbol of happiness, the human smile. These crying tears have some experience to them, some years on them, some life that has been lived to them, some knowing of the frustrations and emptiness, the loneliness that can accompany a life that is being lived. I recognize the sound of these tears.  Their muffled tone sounded closed, as if the person’s knees were drawn up tightly, with arms enfolding, holding in whatever heart remained, so as not to totally lose it, and go completely over the edge.  The tears and their duration gave the impression they were planned.  You know the tears I’m referring to, those days when things just aren’t going your way, when life is a little bit sucky, just a little too much to bear, and you allot yourself time for a good cry.  Cathartic and cleansing, the pent up release, and then you’re done with the wallowing.

These crying tears and sobbing could be the resultant emotion from a memory sparked perhaps by an old photo or a date on the calendar.  A sadness that has been cried many times before, the tears slowly washing away the ache like the soft sides of the beach stones and colorful sea glass that lay strewn across the sand.  Made smooth by the many tides washing over the shore line, like the ebb and flow of a life well lived, life’s blows softened with the inevitability of time, and the harshness of it all, our inner edges rounded, buffeted into submission.

Now they’ve stopped…has the crier of the tears experienced a watershed moment? A before and after, a line of demarcation in the sands of heartbreak, ready to move on, move past the aching tears? Is the crier of tears now ready to experience the bluer than blue sky that shines from above, and the blazing warmth of a gorgeous, sun soaked July afternoon?