Abraham,
Someone recently challenged us to think of your crying as a way to burn off energy, to spin the sparks of the day out and away. Maybe you cry like I bounce, late at night listening to the endless rain. It makes sense really; the world is so new to you and I would guess so overwhelming. I have lived in it for thirty-six years and still find myself buried at the end of every day in thoughts and ideas and strange occurences to mull over again and again. It's a rich fabric and I would hate to miss a single color.
Until today I saw my job as the cry-stopper. I have ten techniques or more to distract you from your grief. Except maybe it's not really grief. Maybe it's a song you're singing. You got no words for it all, just sounds, sweet noise. Maybe these are your songlines.
Tonight I hold you close and you sing. Loud. We walked in the half light of the bedroom and swayed gently, much more gently than the trees outside, buffeted by yet another rain storm. I open my heart so wide that I fall in. I cry with you. We recall the day the same. I cannot describe the calm after. It is fresh and quiet.
Later I sing to you a lullaby written in the moment. It rolls like a chant, a tone poem, a TV on the Radio song. I call the words from the air, from our day together, from the rain outside, from your smiling eyes. It is my songline. We write it everyday.
Pa-