Let the Boy Cry

I laughed a high-pitched, cackling laugh, and I reminded myself of a witch. All because I heard him say he didn’t know how to spell mayonnaise. And that’s how come it wasn’t on the shopping list, though it was there two weeks ago and she didn’t buy it.


Then, after incessantly teasing him, I brought my brother down to my room to get him to stop crying. I sat him on my lap and patted his back. Let him cool down in front of the fan. I even played a song for him; “Sailing”. I asked him if he was crying because he wanted to go back to sleep (his mother said she didn’t know why he was always cranky when he was tired). He shook his head no. “Why are you crying then?” I asked him. He shrugged. He didn’t know. I hugged him empathically. I understood so well what he meant. “I do that sometimes too,” I said. Crying without knowing why. I wondered what a three-year-old would have to cry about, but abandoned the thought. I couldn’t believe I had this, of all things, in common with him. I hugged him, and patted his back, and I let the boy cry.


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