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The Boy Who Cried
He was like a revelation to me.
The funeral mass tugged at my psyche. The hymns of long-ago days filtered through my head and made the memory of sorrow bubble up in my thoughts. The woman who had died wasn’t a friend — just a family acquaintance — but I still sat in a pew to show my respect for the life she had lived.
Across the way and a few aisles up sat one of her great-nephews, clad in a trim blue suit. My eyes kept drifting to him because he was one of the only few young people — like me — in attendance. Maybe that was a sign of some kind.
During the eulogy, he snagged my attention again as he bent his head and pressed a fist to his forehead. No one else was watching him, but I saw him openly weep in an unguarded way that fascinated me. I had never seen a young man cry like that. Tears were meant for uncles and grandfathers after a drink or two. Seeing this stranger cry struck something inside me, like a bell toll resounding in my chest.
I kept sneaking peeks at him. It took him a few minutes to collect himself and let out a shaky breath. His whole body seemed to vibrate with a sorrow I too had felt once upon a time ago. His grief rang true to me in ways that didn’t need words. I recognized a piece of myself in this one glimpse of his inner life.
