The Library of Tears

Dear Clementine,

     

Winter is coming and I cannot leave my Welsh cottage, the mountains. I mourn the loss of Albert. Yesterday, I met a bearded man in a café. I was sat in my usual spot, drinking frothy coffee, reading the paper. I suddenly began to cry. The man turned to me, offered a tissue and this is what he said,

     

“Tears are a river which carries words, pushed by undercurrents; an implicit battle between water and stone, between day and night, between what we wanted and what is. Flesh unarticulated. Each drop contains letters, sentences, potential paragraphs. Tucked inside every single falling sphere is a turning wish of saying, a transparent secret unsaid. The tears tumble and they carry the words. Bidding. Flowing. Seeping from your heart. You are weeping a library of tears.”

     

Be well and kiss the baby,

     

Aunt Dorothea.