Tears

This one isn’t really a blog. Think of it as a poem.

Have I ever told you what I feel? Not really. I didn’t talk much about me before this started.

I remember someone who worked for me, Peter, at Woolworths, who after he’d had a deeply traumatic incident, would be ashamed to find himself crying at the stupidest things.

I’m not ashamed; embarrassed; but not ashamed, that tears flow now – oh, Row knows that I cried when I saw the Alhambra palace, the Grand Canyon, Machu Picchu; and I can cry when someone meets their cousin on “Who do you think you are?”; and when I think back to half-time of that night in Istanbul when Liverpool were 3-0 down and the lads sang 4-3 and the boys made it 3-3 and Dudek saved the penalties.

We should all be able to shed a tear.

But now I find that tears well up easily, often fleetingly, in my voice as well as my eyes.

And once, at least so far only once, a deep, wracking, flood of relief – yes relief, through happiness, when someone described their joy at seeing their partner looking so well and proclaiming their happiness just hours after surgery similar to mine.

Tears when I say how Row is coping – it’s going to get harsh for her too  soon – I’ll try to be a good patient – but that might be an act too far.

Tears when I say how you are – yes you who give me courage – you may think I do this alone – no, I do this with you all.

Tears for me? Tears for fears? Not yet.

Tears for souvenirs? – Yes – I’m happy to cry when I see how worried you are. I wish it wasn’t so. I’m glad to know you all. A hug, a handshake, a kiss, a smile, a laugh, a tear and a how’d-you-do to you too.

With love

Frank  :'(   sniff