When Tears Run Dry

The world is crying as I make my way over the jagged, rocky path that leads home. A myriad teardrops fall around me in the gray light, and I smile a little, even though I’m sopping wet, and cold.

It’s good to be back here, and it’s even better because I remember how much more beautiful the world will be when the rain has stopped. I watched it happen countless times here, my childish eyes staring out the high, narrow windows at a view that was already breathtaking. And every time, heaven’s tears would make it lovelier, more brilliant.

I’m not a child anymore, but, if anything, my love for beauty has only grown and intensified. Perhaps because I need it more.

My boot splashes as it hits a puddle, and I look down to watch the water running in rivulets across the path. It trickles away over the steep edge to my right where I know it hits the valley floor and forms the shallow channel I used to play in on days when Mother thought it was warm enough.

On days when Mother thought it was warm enough.

My smile fades, and I move on, gently kicking the water so I can see the droplets make their own ripples when they land. I used to do that, too.

The hills which roll away on my left are newly green, and for some reason the absence of sheep makes me feel lonely, like they should be out here in the rain with me, ready to greet their old companion, ready to baa their hellos. But I can’t blame them for staying where it’s warm and dry, and deep down I know they wouldn’t remember me anyway.

What must I look like to the land that watched me grow up? I left when I was hardly more than a boy. Our similarities are almost completely bound up in the memories we hold, those and the walking staff in my hand, which I’ve had for thirty years. So much in me has changed; so little in this place.

I round the sharp bend my sister named Reveal, and stare up at the noble outline of my old home, perched on its hilltop with the great pine trees swaying around it. Unchanged. Dependable.

Or so appearances would have me believe.

The path goes from rocks to mud, and the steep valley-edge falls away, leaving me among the hills, surrounded on either hand by pastures.

As I near home, I realize I had almost forgotten what the wind sounds like moving through the pines. That whispering lulled me to sleep every night. What else have I forgotten?

I breathe in deeply as I reach the top of the hill and turn to look over my shoulder. The clouds hang low, obscuring the tops of the distant mountains, but that’s one thing I’ll never forget. Blindfold me any day, and I could flawlessly trace the outline of those rugged peaks.

I let the rain fall on me a moment longer, watching as a drop slips from the brim of my hat, then tramp the final steps to the old doors. My fingers lift a knocker slowly, and the movement makes me smile again. I remember when I used to strain to reach these.

Three light taps, and I stop, looking down at my wet clothes and muddy boots. What will I look like to the people who watched me grow up? I left when I was hardly more than a boy. And so much has passed since then.

“Eddy?” a soft voice asks.

I look up, startled. She opened the door so quietly.

For a moment we stare at each other, and I know I’m as changed to her eyes as she is to mine; probably more so. It’s still my sister’s voice, and to some degree her face and figure, but time has carved his marks in many places, and she is no longer pretty. A plump, slightly graying woman in a dark dress says my name now.

“Isabel,” I have to clear my throat before I speak, or I know it’ll break.

Her eyes look moist, and she nods, stepping aside to let me in.

Something like wonder comes over me when I see that the entryway is exactly as it was when I left. I guess seeing my sister made me think more would have changed.

“How is she?” I ask, briefly meeting her eyes.

“Not well,” Isabel shakes her head. “I-I’m glad you came. I didn’t think you would.”

I can’t help pausing, staring off into a cob-webbed corner as I think about that. Who does she think I am? Has my absence made her believe I don’t care?

“Can I see her?” I don’t voice my thoughts.

She looks my wet clothes up and down, but nods. “Yes. Come on.”

I scrape my boots on the doormat, throwing my walking staff into its old corner, and hurry after her.

We go upstairs and every hall, every door, sparks another memory. That’s where I used to wait to startle Isabel in the mornings; that’s where I would take our faithful collie when it was stormy outside; and that’s my bedroom, where Mother read stories to us at night, where I cried and laughed, where I turned from toddler to what I believed was a man.

Isabel, the woman who’s aging now, stops at a door that will never change. Its rough surface is marked with the same scars I remember, and I’m transported back to those nights when dreams frightened me and took my sleep. When I would knock on this door and know that all my worries were soon to disappear in Mother’s arms.

In Mother’s arms.

My sister knocks softly, then turns the doorknob, and I hold my breath. Am I prepared to see what lies within this room?

We enter, and I pause, taking in the scene before me with a heart that hardly knows whether to burst or to break. Perhaps they are one and the same.

Standing a little to my left is a man with a child in his arms, and beside him are two boys not far from manhood. I don’t know any of them, but the man looks so much like the pictures of my father, and the boys… their faces remind me vaguely of a face I used to see in the mirror.

Across the room is an older man, about Isabel’s age. The husband I never met.

And there, against the wall, is the bed. Hardly changed, with the same quilt, with the same plush pillows that pulled you deeper in sleep than you could go anywhere else in the world.

Standing by the bed is a figure I do know. A young woman, the woman who should have opened the door. Isabel? No. No! Her daughter! But so, so much alike.

Finally, I pull my gaze to the bed, to the woman lying there with her head among the pillows, with her white hair falling over her shoulders, framing her wrinkled face and weary eyes.

“Mother.”

She smiles at me, and I run to the bed, taking her hand as I might have years ago. Only now it is thin and weak, shaking and cold within my grasp.

There are other people in the room, and I hear their voices around me, softly, but not the words.

“Edward,” my mother whispers and I see tears on her wasted cheeks. “My Eddy.”

I am crying. It has been many years since I’ve wept freely, but I do it now, letting out all the pain and fear that have gathered in my bosom. Knowing that they will soon disappear.

Still holding Mother’s hand, I look out the big window where the rain has stopped, and smile a little, even though it hurts.

It’s good to be back, and it’s even better because I believe the world will be more beautiful when this has passed. Tears can make so many things lovelier, more brilliant.

And we all need beauty.