A quick change of subject and the feelings subside. Public transportation is no place to discuss my grief-I hate for people to see me cry-yet the pain still clenches my stomach with tight fingers and tying hundreds of knots.
I long to turn inside out: to slice through the knots, break down the dam of my stubborn pride and let the river of emotion flow. Only the most steadfast listener could avoid being swept away in the flood.
A quick good bye and I'm on another bus. My novel tells of the soulful lament for a beloved bard and prince: a beautiful, horribly wailing that fill the ears of the reader without hearing a thing. With the final words of the story tears shoot once more to my eyes. I feel my face like ice, struggling to crack. Yet again, not here, not now. I close my eyes and sleep to block all emotion.
Awake once more, I climb onto my final bus. People climb aboard in large groups, all taking interest into one another's day. I am alone. No one asks about my day. My chin quivers and I feel as though I could shatter into hysterics. No. Not here, not now. I force myself to focus on the sounds of Les Miserables pouring through my head phones.
Finally, I walk home. I am virtually alone, with only the rushing cars to keep me company, yet I still hold back. The tiniest moan escapes my lips. Still-the tears do not fall.
Just as I decide to give in, it is over; the tears are not there. Just an Grandma shaped emptiness, longing to be filled. My heart yearns for the special love that only she can give to fill the void, but I am left with only a failing taste of the joy I could have.
I need to bake cookies. Perhaps they-the food for sad souls-will sooth my hurting heart. I bake and eat to no avail. The hole remains, the hurt persists, the tears still linger just under the surface.
Something needs to change. If only I knew what, when, and how.
Jesus, help me please.
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