I wept huge, fat, tears, in a gothic cathedral in Barcelona, for a baby that will never be. They poured out of me, wetting my neck. It was a story I had heard long before, in a bar where the beer glasses were too big and the light dim amidst the loudness that such large glasses of beer bring with them.
It hit me only there, in the exaggerated quiet of the ancient cathedral where so many people had come to cry, to beg, to pray, to celebrate. Whispers lingered in corners with rows of candles now paid for in real money and lit. Flames of desire, flames of longing, flames of tragedy and despair and hope, all flickering and flapping and waving to each other.
Recently, I was reminded of those tears, with another story that made me weep. Life can be excruciatingly sad and equally, I guess, excruciatingly joyous. And there is sometimes extreme beauty in the heartbreak. Other times, not.
And it’s those ‘not situations’ that leave me excruciatingly tearful.