Day Eighteen, After: Not Afraid to Cry
“The Soul would have no Rainbow
If the Eyes had no tears.”
–Native American Proverb
Part I. I visited the Plaza twice this week, once with my teenage great nephews, who were nervous to be there, and once with their mother and aunt, my niece, Mikala, who had lost her husband last August to Covid. She was moved beyond what she had imagined, tears flowing freely as she touched the flowers and stuffed animals. “At least they are remembering them,” she gently affirmed, looking at the many pictorials of the Los Angelitos together, reminding me how often society is quick to forget the departed one and move on quickly from grief.
Grief. It comes in all sizes and types, has its own timeline, and is always below the surface. The Plaza is covered with symbols of grief, and I wondered if God allowed the drought to preserve all the symbols of grief we have laid upon our handmade memorials throughout town. Despite the heat drying the flowers, you can smell their perfume across the downtown square. The candles have melted like our hearts – the flicker gone but the pain remains. The stuffed animals are perfect and untouched, not spoiled by rain. They sit propped up as if guarding the children of each cross or serving as a reminder of innocence gone too soon.
And the teachers’ memorials … we adults grieve over the children with a deep anguish, but the teachers? We stand at their crosses, pondering their courage as their last moments were spent saving “their children.” We are the peers who judge, and we are awed, overcome, by the bravery they showed. Our throats are dry … we are rendered speechless at such love … but our tears tell the story. Mikala, a college instructor, specifically wanted to see their crosses.
Later we walked around the Plaza, the fountain reflects the sunlight among the watery droplets as they fall to earth – it is our only moisture. That, and the tears we wipe away. Before Mikala and I left, we prayed together. The world did not stop … the trucks roared down Hwy 90, cars honked, people walked by … as we echoed the prayers of others who have recently prayed under the old pecan trees planted by our ancestors.
Part II. Earlier I had taken Mikala to the Library to show her where I worked. The staff knew of her loss last summer, and they gathered around her like mother hens. She asked later if they were always that kind. Always, I told her, but we have gotten closer since May 24th — all of Uvalde has. Grief does that.
I added that the staff and I cannot help but read the children’s books on grief. They are short and beautifully illustrated, a work of art held simply in one’s hand.
“Here, look at this one,” Lucy, said as she gave me “A Friendship Forever” by Jeannine Bernardi. Two chimp friends, who spent their days swinging through the jungle, are separated when one chimp never returned. The remaining chimp learns to remember his lost friend. Tears. Then Lucy flipped through “The Healing Book” by Ellen Sabin and pointed out where you can tape pictures of your lost one and answer questions about what you miss about them or your favorite adventure together. More tears. Claudia May’s “When I Fly with Papa” you got it, tears again. We would read, cry, and then enter the book into the database, get the next book and repeat.
The staff has pulled 21 copies of each child’s book on grief for the families of our precious angels. People always pause when they see the stacks — it is a visual reminder of loss. Mikala wiped away tears, noting that the stacks made it real. And a table is also set up with books to hand out to the public if you wish to stop by and peruse of our free selections for adults and children. It helps to understand grief by reading about it. And if, as you read, you cry, we are okay with that.
As the Hopi People say,
“Don’t be afraid to cry.
It will free your mind of sorrowful thoughts.”
In Conclusion: Here in Uvalde, we are strong enough to cry. We are #UvaldeStrong
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