Sometimes I’ll be watching a film or listening to a song or singing to myself. I’ll see something on the news or the newsfeed. Or I’ll be at a kitchen table talking with some friends about something difficult, really being honest for once.
Maybe the preceding day has been painful.
It doesn’t open just because the children have been constant all day, or if I’ve had another writing rejection. If I’ve been the source of a social faux pas – and I’ve had many! it stays resolutely shut.
Sometimes I’ll know it’s going to be a day when it opens up, but sometimes I don’t.
The last time I could almost feel the crack, the hinges swinging. Like an internal door, the echoing space, empty but so, so full.
I’m talking about the place inside me where all the tears live.