Skip to main content

Permission

Yesterday, I granted permission to the tears. I allowed them to well up and over the ledges of my eyes and pool where my cheek and sunglasses met as I commuted. I allowed them to collect there, even granting just a couple passage down my chin and my neck for two long minutes. In those two long minutes, I blocked out the sight of other cars, the drivers who might see my vulnerability, my humanity. In those two long minutes, the soothing voice on the radio introduced me to a man whose friend Omar sheltered him when nobody else--not even his parents--would. Omar was killed by Omar, and both had a mother and father.

The day of, I refused to grant permission to my tears, instead batting them away with vigorous blinking and choking them down with considerable will. I read only half articles and spoke in only fragmented conversations because I could not bear to confront my own vulnerability, my own humanity.

Today, my tears granted my body permission to sob--a deep wracking sob--the kind of sob that echoes in an empty room. My tears allow me to see my daughter, hunched in the corner of the bathroom, texting me, “Mommy, I love you . . . Call them mommy. Now.” My tears allow me to see my Uncle’s body, splayed out next to the bar, with my face on his cell phone, vibrating, until only, “Missed Call.” My vulnerability, my humanity overwhelms me until my tears run out and I pick up my pen.

Comments