Years later, she told me that she never knew where all the tears that sprung forth that day had come from. She would always refer to it as “the day I cried for no reason.” She had cried over her father’s death, of course, but that was a discreet, dignified crying filled with pride, with no outbursts or drama, though not without bitterness. Knowing my mama, she would have made use of her embroidered handkerchief, careful as she always was not to show her natural—but uncomfortable and shameful—secretions. It had been elegant and justified crying. But there’s crying and there’s crying.
