This late age of the world’s experience had bred in them all, all men and women, a well of tears. Tears and sorrows; courage and endurance; a perfectly upright and stoical bearing.
Suddenly you began to sob. It was an unnerving sound, like air escaping from a faucet when the water stops.
He drank his coffee and watched the Silex bubble and steam, and he wept. The weeping was very calm and completely silent. It and his cup of coffee ended at the same time.
And then what we do, we cry, and we take our tears, and we put ’em in the ice box, in the goddamn ice trays until they’re all frozen and then ... we put them ... in our ... drinks.
Despite the smile on her face, her entire frame had from the beginning been convulsed with weeping.
He cries a great deal of the time: so steadily that the crying goes unnoticed, as would the habituate noise of a nearby waterfall.
There our oun mothers' tears shall heal us whole.
It’s a waste of water to cry, I tell myself, but I can’t seem to stop.
Man, I've always cried too easily. I cry when I'm happy or sad. I cry when I'm angry. I cry because I'm crying. It's weak. It's the opposite of the warrior.
And maybe one day when you’re all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you’re three, and that’s okay. That’s what I tell Mama when she’s sad and needs to cry. Maybe she’s feeling three.