Private Practice Therapist
by Caryn—Age 53—Carbondale, CO
Some cry within the first few minutes; others never can, even after a year.
The same losses make them cry but it is how they cry that defines them.
The pain is a given.
One mother cries into her hands as if to catch rain in a cup. Another shrugs, smiles hard, then sobs. An honor student breaks like safety glass, the frame intact, her image in pieces. A grandmother smoothes the pleats of her skirt as she weeps with no sound, the way they do in old movies.
The men don’t know what to do with their faces. It’s as if they’ve been sucker-punched. An ambushed husband gasps and covers his heart. Another one fights it, swears, calls himself names—the tears come anyway. One boy, once, swallowed his gum.
The job is to be there.
I often wonder if the words even matter.
The best thing is to be seen.
The best thing is to be known.
The best thing is to say the secret out loud.
What surprises the most?
How normal it is to be a hero.
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