And, when I am done crying, only then, do they set my tears down. Gently.
On the table, "Oh look," they exclaim, "a rosy ruby, an emerald of the deepest green, a perfect pearl."On the parched and sandy soil, my tears seep through their fingers, and drip into the ground. Together we watch a once-in-fifteen-years flower bloom, its delicate petals open to the sun. Wide eyed we hold hands and watch as a little desert frog emerges from its dry hibernation, mates and lays eggs, and then slips back into the mud just as the land starts to crackle and dry, nestling down for another long slumber.
Yes, I have sisters who catch my tears. And, when I find myself spinning alone in the dark, wondering which way is up, my heart breaking in two, I call them. And, they listen to my tale through the moans and the hiccups. I call them, and they tell me back my story. I call them, and their gentle voices soothe. I call them. I call them.
Oh, I have sisters, tear catching, dancing, singing sisters wearing beautiful dresses, gowns covered in mirrors.
I love them, my sisters. I love how my call to them saves me. I love how they tell me things I wish I had the wisdom to tell myself. I love to hear their voices. I love me shedding my tears and them catching in cupped hands, my tears. I love them, tears and sisters; sisters and tears.
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