I wasn't brought up to cry. On any number of fronts, weeping was not in the cards. As a child, naturally I did cry some, but not much. But as I got older the habit took hold. Whatever the tragedy or horror, my cheeks generally stayed dry.
I thought of this this afternoon as I watched "Chariots of Fire," a 1981 movie about the 1924 Olympics. Costumes, principles, intelligence, bigotry, and romance all centered around people making a great effort. And by the end, the tears were rolling down my cheeks, for no reason I could name or explain. Just drip, drip, drip.
I think perhaps, having missed my chance earlier on, it's time to catch up with a perfectly good function and capacity. Others have been luckier and more skilled than I ever became.
But now it's my turn, I guess.
Sap, sucker, softie ... that's me. Or maybe it's just my practice.