I’m not a crier. With the exception of a memorable weeping jag over a breakup I generally don’t shed many tears. It feels weird at times, everyone else will be sniffly and red-eyed and I’m standing around feeling guilty for not crying. I used to think I had a cold heart for not being quick to tears, but decided that cold-hearted folks would not worry if they weren't crying.
I’ve had tears in the back of my eyes since Wednesday morning when I learned from his parents, that an old boyfriend, Ken Fisher had been killed in a motorcycle accident near his Philadelphia home. But couldn’t manage to actually cry. Yesterday another friend and neighbor was found dead in his house from a fire. It was a busy day of work – I seemed to be doing everyone’s job but my own, gave a speech at a media company and had several after-work obligations so didn't really have time to process the news.
I got done with all of the things I had to do about 11:30 last night. I stopped at my favorite music venue on the way home and heard an excellent band that played traditional country music – lots of George Straight and Hank Williams . I figured that if I wasn’t crying after three whiskeys and a pedal steel solo it wasn’t gonna happen.
I got home at 1:30, fed Pacifist Kitty, looked at the mail, started a load of laundry and washed some dishes as I made popcorn. I made a pyramid of bowls on my drying rack. One slipped and crashed in to the sink, breaking it and the dishes still in the sink.
I sat on my kitchen floor and had a good old-fashioned messy cry.