After a day at the pit, she salted the well with her tears. They drank all she dragged home and wanted more. She cried again.
“Your gran was the pirate radio to my Radio 1, so she was.” Blank looks from the earphone generation. Tears streamed like music.
You said the book of my poems I lent you was now tear-stained. My breath was taken, and I too cried a little. But you had said tea-stained.
When a good person leaves us, we cry for the person and for the ideas, the ideas we fear may fade without their light. And we cry for ourselves, so deeply for ourselves, we cry for how we might have been and how we will have been.
Family and love was all that ever made us cry; then friends departing and friends letting us down. Reasons for tears grow with us. Tears sting and fists rub eyes.
But a good person leaving us brings the deepest tears, the tears that shudder from the deepest place, the place we did not know existed and did not want to exist.
Then hope? Perhaps.