sorry

One word.  A thought.  A few notes of a song.

Driving the car.  Taking a shower.

Walking down the grocery aisle.

It starts as a little trickle.   Breathe.  Breathe.

But nothing works.  And the little trickle turns into a continuous stream that can no longer be hidden.  And people are caught off guard as they react – some with a sympathetic smile and some with a look of confusion.  And the children just stare.

I quietly apologize for making them feel uncomfortable.  They only came in for some bread and milk and come face to face with a mess of tears.

I’m sorry.