I hurt my finger on Friday morning. Badly.
At the time, I was rushing to get my kids to school because my older daughter slept through her alarm and needed a ride. My roommate asked if I was okay. I told her yes but in actuality, I was in tremendous pain, the kind of pain that makes you sick to your stomach.
I didn’t let myself cry. I didn’t have time.
The fingertip was (is) bruised and the pain shoots up into the joints–almost to my wrist. I ask for people to kiss it and they do. I am grateful but there is still something missing.
It aches all weekend and it’s difficult to maneuver as it’s my dominant hand.
I still don’t cry.
It’s Monday morning and I’m snuggling with my 8 year-old before school. She says, “Hey mom, how is your finger?”
I finally cry.
Perhaps that’s what love is: Caring enough to ask how the other person is.
As I write this, I feel uncried tears in my heart seeking expression. I feel all the times nobody asked or cared.
I don’t want to have to hurt myself to cry.
I want to acknowledge my own pain.
I want to make space for my tears.