As I sat on the floor of our porch, watching my silent tears plop onto the dry concrete, I felt ashamed. I’m an adult – shouldn’t I be crying somewhere more appropriate, like a chair? And why was I wallowing? Shouldn’t I be doing something useful, like sending flowers to the immediate family of my deceased relative?
As my “grown up” brain pecked away at me, my two-year-old walked up, wiped the tears off my face with sweet pudgy little hands and wrapped his arms around my neck. He then proceeded to pat my back and hold me- not saying anything.