I planned on keeping my misery to myself by means of staying downstairs and self-medicating with the carton of butter pecan ice cream I had hidden in the bottom of the deep freeze. The tin of chocolate-dipped caramels Miss Wise gave me when I dropped Charlotte off caught my eye as I dug a giant scoop of ice cream out and into a mixing bowl. The cereal bowls were too small to hold the proper dose. I popped the lid, plucked a chocolate out and into my mouth before pouring the rest on top of the ice cream.

With the bowl in hand, I shuffled into the living room and plopped onto the couch. The silence was too loud, so I thumbed through the records to find something to help hush it and drown out my miserable thoughts about Vance and already regretting letting him go. But to keep him would have just been selfish. At least I tried talking myself into that truth.

Settling on the Allman Brothers album, I turned the volume low and started shoveling ice cream in my mouth, chewing thoughtfully on the sticky caramels. I kept at it until “Dreams” started playing. It drew everything to the surface like a salve drawing out poison. I set the spoon down and let it do its worst, thinking perhaps the tears would show up to at least wash some of the pain away. The song ended without tears.

I’d erected such an invincible wall between me and the outside world that an inner wall had gone up between me and my emotions. I’d tried countless times to tear it down, but nothing had been found to penetrate it. I knew the simple act could be so freeing in so many ways after witnessing it expressed in various themes amongst our small congregation.

Surprisingly, Morty Lawson had shown the purest forms of crying. Smiling cheeks damp and hands raised in the air as he shouted amen, his were tears of praise and worship.

A river of heaviness marked by trails of mascara, Walynn Posten was the epitome of brokenness and regret. Cries so violent her narrow shoulders shook.

The most profound tears I’d witnessed had been subtle ones accompanied by an appreciative smile from Miss Wise when Charlotte and I had surprised her with a packet of significant paperwork last year. We’d pooled our earnings Pa paid us from the tobacco season and made a donation to a museum whose sole purpose was to preserve the history of Holocaust victims. Our donation was enough to have two brick pavers added to the museum’s garden engraved with Helena Wisniewska on one in her honor and Irene Wisniewska on the other in memory of Miss Wise’s sister. Those were tears of healing.

Staring at the melting ice cream drowning the beautiful chocolates, I longed for a combination of those tearful expressions or just one, but none showed up.

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