“We will not know if a river cries, Ma,” muses my little poet.I sigh.
I, too, am a river, son.
I cry, a lot, but no one can see my tears.
I cry behind closed doors, in bathrooms, at nights.
I cry to release my pain, to cool my scars. The ones that I cannot see, but hurt more than the black bruises in my body. The bruises that the most expensive makeup can barely hide.
I cry when your daddy hits me for no reason. Oh, sometimes there are reasons. Like when his tea is a bit cold. When the salt in his soup is too much. Strangely enough, I find the tea ok. And the soup too. But yes, he has his reasons.
I cry to make the pain go away. It rarely does.
But it sure numbs when I see you. With your giggles and laughter, your pranks and questions, you make me who I want to be.
I cannot believe you are one half of that monster.
And because I do not want you to become him one day, we will soon fly away, to a place where he wont find us. Soon.
He thinks he is the sea, and I am a river that will always flow to him.
This river will flow away from the sea, son.
And that is what I want to tell you. But I don’t.
“Rivers do not cry, they are always happy. Like you.” I say, instead.
And as an afterthought, I add,