Flooded

I never thought I would be able to stop crying. For many days and nights, I sat alone on my bed, my head in my pillow, tears as salty as the Pacific Ocean. And then I wept a little harder when nostalgia set in, recalling the smell of their musky cologne and the days we spent hand in hand, listening to the waves crashing in on the shore. This went on for a week or so. There were enough tears to fix the drought in California. And I started to wonder where on earth all of this water, pouring out of my tear ducts, was coming from. And then I thought of them. And the tears came flooding back like rivers running down my face. Only rushing faster and harder by the second. And no matter how hard I tried, it wouldn’t stop. They just came flooding and flooding and flooding. All of our memories, all of our love, were destroyed. And I just wanted so badly to get out of this suffering. Every time my eyes met my mother’s, she asked me, ”How long are you going to torture yourself like this?” And in between weeps, I said to her, “One day I will wake up, and there will be no tears. I won’t cry. But for now, I must let my tears flood. I must allow myself to feel.” I wasn't sure when I’d get tired of crying, but lo and behold, one day, and I woke up, and I just did.