Years ago, a friend of mine said to me, "You have a deep well of grief hidden inside you." At the time I didn't believe him.
But evidently I didn't dig the well deep enough. Or maybe didn't hide it well enough. A couple of years ago it overflowed or came uncapped or was stumbled upon. Whatever it is deep wells of grief--hidden in such a way that the person housing them doesn't even know they're there--do.
We are supposed to be in control of ourselves and our emotions, but I am not in control of mine.
I cry. Like, a lot. "I could write a whole book on crying," I wrote in one of my pieces, and it's true. This essay might be the beginning of it.
