These Are the Tears of Things

"These are the tears of things" is part of a line in the Aeneid, which continues "and our mortality cuts to the heart." The second half meant nothing to me, a college sophomore, when I first read those words. My experience with mortality had been limited to the death of distant grandparents. But somehow, without fully understanding why, I was struck by the thought that things (such a vague and yet all-encompassing word) cried tears.

I recalled those words when I heard that my sister-in-law's house was flooded the week she was widowed. When Al died, the ceiling in my house collapsed from a water leak.  By the time my recently-widowed cousin reported the damage to her basement from a malfunctioning sump pump, I simply nodded to myself. The three of us had been literally flooded with the tears of things when death ripped our loved ones from us.

Of course there are technical reasons for these floods--overflowing washing machines, clogged drain pipes, and failed sump pumps--but it does seem a fitting focus for the newly bereaved, who has to get her house dried out immediately or risk permanent mold and mildew seeping into the foundation. All that water must be dispatched with efficient haste. The three of us had no choice but to spring into action.

A practical crisis demanded our attention, and we had to abandon our stunned emotional state for a time. Having different personalities and needs, we followed different paths once the water was staunched. Both my sister-in-law and my cousin have always endorsed staying busy and active, so they kept their momentum going. I'm the more reflective type and went back to sorting out my emotions in my own time. For all three of us work, family, and the companionship of friends has kept us in the flow of life.

There is no formula for one and all to follow. There is no sequence to the stages of grief, and here I'm referring to Kubler-Ross as well as all the religious and cultural models that prescribe a set amount of time for grief before one is expected to move on. In my first days of widowhood, I looked in books for how to feel because I was afraid I'd drown in all that grief and agony. But I stopped seeking answers from how-to books as I've learned to let my feelings seep through little by little. Sometimes a feeling comes to the surface and recedes, but I'm beginning to recognize the ebb and flow of deep mourning. Just as I can't remember its beginning, I don't expect its absolute end. It's become a part of me.