Lachrymal

This word has been chasing me. In and out of my mind, like a song you hear and can’t stop singing.

No reason, really. I haven’t been studying anything related to it. Haven’t seen it written, nor heard it spoken. And yet, it has chased my consciousness down to this moment when finally tired of hearing it repeat over and over in my mind, I let it sit in my mind for the five minutes I have left to myself in the last five years. I listened:

“Why have you come to mess with my concentration?” I asked.

“Let me in,” Lachrymal said.

“I have so much to do, I don’t have time!” I protested.

“I am not leaving,” said Lachrymal.

Then, because I was too tired to work, or to pretend to be well, I figured, what the hell? Might as well.

Lachrymal came in swiftly as if she had been in my house before. Tossing her keys on my side table without looking, she marched into my kitchen and grabbed a glass. Filling it up over the sink she looked at me, no expression, and told me this would be quick, that she couldn’t stay long, but that it was urgent she see me.

She walked to me, slowly. She took my right hand with her left hand and drank the water with her right. Drinking too fast, drops fell on my palm. Tiny drops pooled in my hand.

“They are tears,” Lachrymal said, heading toward the door, picking up her keys.

“Why did you come?” I asked.

“Because I heard your heart wailing, Walker. Your heart won’t survive if you don’t weep. Weep the pain you are entitled to feel.”

“I don’t feel anything,” I said. “I’m fine.”

“You are leaking, Walker. Cry or die.”

She shut the door behind her.

I went back to work.

 

 

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