Every place I’ve ever visited has dropped a pebble in my pocket, history dripping like tears from their thick skins.
Everything I’ve Ever Known- Amy Christman
History of Tears
I have always known my mother’s tears, at times felt like I was drowning in them, tears that could appear on demand. Nobody could work up to a good cry like her.
Tears to persuade, to evoke sympathy, to beg us not to leave, but made us want to flee, tears that kept her permanent victimhood intact, tears that cried wolf once too often.
The second anniversary of her death was in February. I’ve had no tears for her- only hope in my heart that she is at long last at peace. Hope that her chaotic, fear-based way of being is no longer a part of her. I knew that death would be her only way to rest, to find peace and, hopefully, joy. My wish for her is that there are no facades on the other side of the veil, no masks to wear. Let those spinning plates of appearance, pride, hurt, and secrets float off into the beautiful beyond.
I wish all good things for her. She deserves them after a lifetime of choices that wouldn’t allow her to trust the right people, choices that called her fears to her, choices that resulted in a rigid belief system. A lifetime believing love was finite, that if those of us who loved her, and there were many, loved others there would never enough love for left for her. But there was always love, Mother. Always and still.
Rebekah for The Poplar Grove Muse