My youngest and I are criers. We cry at movies, at movie trailers, commercials, just about anything sweet that touches the heart. The others in our house, not so much. That doesn’t mean they’re cold hearted or anything just wired differently.
My oldest had colic as a baby. That one would cry and cry until I was sitting on the bed crying with them lost for what to do to make the crying stop. We used to say to that child – why does it cry? That kid is extra and always will be. I couldn’t imagine it any other way now.
It’s that time of year when it’s easy to feel blue, maybe more than only blue. I get in those ruts but my mind isn’t wired to keep traveling down that bleak road, but I know so many others are. When I see the cries of those who are struggling with that, asking into the void for help, it breaks the heart.
Which brings me to writing, I’ve cried at countless movies but there have only been a few books that I cried over and they are weird ones at that: A Thousand Splendid Suns, The Last Night in Twisted River. Why did those books move me to tears where others as heartbreaking did not? I can’t say. My guess is that I read them at precisely the right time in my life to take that moment away with me when the book finished. When I look at that list I feel like Jane Austen, Fitzgerald, Steinbeck, and the countless names of authors that I’ve read and loved should be on there. But none of those have moved me to tears despite how deeply their stories have touched me. My guess is Khaled and Irving might be surprised that the books I listed and not others that they have written were the ones to move to tears.
We all process things differently which is why I cry at movies and others do not. I keep writing to process what goes on inside a brain that never stops, never turns off even when I try to sleep. And maybe I’ll write something so profound someday that I will move others to tears, happy tears, tears of hope, I hope.