LANGUAGE OF TEARS
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Language of Tears
With our worlds separated by a fence, I and the woman next door existed as distant neighbours with nothing more than small talk whenever our eyes met. One would think there was a rift between us, but our different interests truly fueled our ways. Little did I know fate had a cruel twist waiting for both of us.
The night constantly replays in my head like a haunting melody. It was the night Lena, the woman next door, came over to borrow some salt as hers had spilt while cooking. Although it was strange to see her over that late, I let her in and walked her to the kitchen. I poured water into the glasses on the counter and offered her one. She smiled slightly and cupped the glass delicately.
We sipped in silence and let the voices from the TV fill the room. That was when we heard it, the siren that changed our lives. We turned towards the TV as the big red ‘BREAKING NEWS’ banner flashed through, and the reporter narrated a traumatic tale of a plane crash. My world shattered, much like the glass on the floor. Our husbands were on that ill-fated flight, and just like that, we began our roles as widows.
In that moment of despair, our simple relationship morphed into something more profound. Lena’s tears merged with mine as we clung to each other for comfort. Three hours passed, and while my tears subsided into a state of shock, Lena’s persisted. It was not until the morning after that I understood why she cried all night, she was pregnant.
Six months had passed, and my home had become a silent sanctuary to mourn the men we loved and lost, as neither of us had the strength to be alone. The weight of the tragedy was still too much to bear, an unrelenting force neither time nor solace could alleviate. Our families offered sympathy, but only we knew the depth of our pain.
One evening, as we sat in my dark living room, Lena brought up a painful topic. “Belle, have you ever wondered what the guys thought before the plane crashed? Some days I visualize how terrifying their last moments were. Knowing they were going to die must have been the scariest thing ever,” she said, her voice a mix of shock and torment.
“I don’t even want to think about that. I know it’s been months, but I wish we could see them one last time you know, even for a minute. I miss his hugs, kisses, and even the way he would sing out of tune while cooking. We had so many things to do. He had so many things he wanted to do. Can they come back…please,” my sobs emphasising the desperate plea.
As Lena’s breathing quickened, I fought back my tears, realising she needed strength for herself and the unborn child. She excused herself to the bathroom, leaving behind trails of suffering. I sank to the floor as my silent tears mixed with hers. The void left by our husband’s deaths felt impossible to accept. They did not deserve to die, and we did not deserve to mourn.
Six months ago, we hardly spoke, and now we speak the language of tears fluently. In our shared sorrow perhaps lies the seed of healing. A healing that will never restore what we have lost, but with time, could bring peace to our broken hearts.
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