It's What She Did

She was a woman of habit. And one of the most pervasive of her habits was to cry at the slightest provocation. Tears sprang readily to her eyes on the most benign of occasions, but in reality, it was the stimuli piquing her vulnerability that provoked the strongest flow. Often she was unable to explain readily the cause of the welling in her eyes. It was just there, along with the catch in her throat, and the sense of loss and being lost. It was only after a good deal of practice that she was able to apply any kind of analysis to a situation and thereby attempt a rough understanding. The gradual comprehension of why she was crying would bring a cognitive relief, but the emotion usually remained, and tears would often continue to seep unstaunched from her reluctant eyes.

“Why am I crying? It’s what I do,” she would offer as a flip explanation. An attempt at a throwaway laugh would be followed by a sob.

It’s what she did. It’s what she was.