I cannot cry for countries that are not mine.
I cannot cry for people who do not remember my name, know where I am, know where I’m going.
I cannot cry for a life I’ve lived but cannot share – a life so foreign – so many twisted stories and backtracking explanations.
I cannot cry for a life of love and loss I didn’t choose – for a calling that was not mine.
I cannot cry for any of that – because they won’t understand. They’ll hand over a tissue and say “but it’s all in the past, why does it bother you now?”
And I cannot take them into the deep furrows of my heart where heaves of emptiness are tossed back and forth – gaping spaces weighed with memories of a life finished living.
So, I cry, with this open suitcase and this broken mug, I sob and wail and scream over a $6 factory made porcelain coffee cup –
Because I can’t think of anything else.
I can’t share, can’t explain, what it is I really want to cry about.