There is nothing sadder--
not even the loss of a cherished item,
not even the mewing of an abandoned kitten,
not even the break up of a long time love
--than seeing a grown woman crying.
It is sad because all through her life,
she has come to known sadness.
She has learned not to spend her tears lavishly,
saving them only for the proper occasion,
and to be brave for others.
When she was only as tall as her father's knees,
she cried for the toy she could not get.
When she began to blossom in more ways than one,
she cried for the loss of a friend.
When she finally opened the door to adulthood,
she cried for her broken heart.
She has come to known sadness,
and that tears should not be shed foolishly.
And so when the grown woman cries,
you know that there is a great tragedy
written in the heavy heaving of her shoulders,
the startling gasps for air,
and the tight grip over her face in an attempt to hide it.
She tries to hide it,
and often succeeds.
This is why the sight is a rarity,
and why it's rarity adds to the weight of the pain.
Because she knows it too.
There is nothing sadder seeing than a grown woman crying.
But she forgets, she forgets.
There is nothing sadder than seeing a grown woman crying,
except when that woman
is your mother.