The welling tears form a layer of haze from the outer to inner corners.

I hold my breath hoping that the liquid will recede like a wave returning to its base from shore.

With an inhale, the wall breaks

         and

tumbles

down.

At the tip of the strands of tears is the leader: a hot, thick bulb pulling the rest of sadness from my eyes with force.

The more I think, the quicker the legions come.

Today I’m no longer a kid.

I’ve entered the teenage league.

“Why are you crying?” Mom asks compassionately. “I don’t know,” my trembling voice says back.

As I stand in her familiar embrace, connected like during my time in her womb, the top of our heads stop at the same point in space.

Now I feel wetness on my neck. Mom is crying too. And as the tears gush from her eyes, the blessings rush from her lips at an unsteady pace. Pausing. Breathing. Crying.