I was about 11 or 12 then. <br />She and I were sitting in the living room, <br />not the den. Maybe that had something <br />to do with it. <br /> <br />Living rooms back then were for company, <br />a lavishly draped and bedecked <br />holy-of-holies which made me, <br />the rare times I entered, <br />feel as if I had entered a chapel, <br />quiet, the scent of polished wood <br />like incense. <br /> <br />My mother sat there eating grapes <br />and I peeled an orange. <br />Inexplicably, I felt something was about to happen. <br /> <br />In one quick movement <br />she let the basket of fruit fall to her lap, <br />placed her hands over her mouth <br />and began to shake silently and gently. <br /> <br />Something was occuring that had never occurred <br />and never would again to my knowledge: <br />My mother was crying. <br />Drops the size of seed pearls <br />were falling into the basket of grapes. <br /> <br />It was over in less than a minute. <br />She picked up the fruit <br />and went back into the kitchen. <br />I remained in the sanctuary for a moment <br />embarassed, disturbed, and suddenly older. <br /> <br />She never told me what had made her so unhappy <br />that day, and I never asked her. <br />I sensed that it was something far too <br />personal ever to talk about. <br /> <br />To this very day, <br />I often wonder what I witnessed that day, <br />what holy thing, what immeasurably sad thing.<br /><br />Sonny Rainshine<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-sanctity-of-tears/
