cry, cry, cry

The baby in the apartment below is cying. Howling, actually. It is remarkable, how every cry is different. I remember when V was born, and even in a noisy maternity ward, down a hall we knew which one was hers. We are born screaming, every damn one of us. We breathe in and we let out the loudest sound we can muster. It literally brings us to life. The baby cries to say it is hungry, or wet, or that it cannot sleep, and sometimes just because. 

Over time, the cry shifts. And then the day arrives when they are four, and they are crying in silence. You turn a corner, and spy them on the floor surrounded by Legos with tears painting their cheeks. What makes us hold it all in? What brings us to this strange act? 

Last week, I went down a rabbit hole with E talking about writing. First person, second, third, changing tenses in mid stream, jumping from horses, lasso tricks, and more. She is deep into her first formal writing experience and shares a weekly assignment with a collection of strangers in a closed group. I requires all of my restraint and pause to let her tread through the minefield and find her own way. I nudge. I joke, I cajole. She is a good sport and by some strange luck has a sense of humor about herself. As the conversation took various detours, I ended up showing her some of the early posts from Impressions of an Expat, odd glimpses at her strange childhood. For whatever reason, she had never read them. 

I trotted off to the kitchen to start dinner, and came back to see what her mood was for side dishes to be concocted from the jumble of options crammed into our refrigerator. 

There she was, face red as a plum, and I could almost smell the salt dragging along her cheeks. I don't know why I thought she would have any other reaction but somehow I was surprised. 

"Come on." I said. "Let's be in the kitchen."

She smiles, her face a mess and if she wore mascara she would look like a bubbly raccoon. But she doesn't. She blows her nose, drags a sleeve across her eyes and finds her feet.