Tears of Gray

I was young...

Very young;
all I remember is cold.

Cold and wet,
as the tears of the moving crowd
shone on the pavement.
The skies were gray,
as dismal as the heavy sorrow
that rested on the weeping women,
all in black.

But I didn’t cry.

Even as I stared into the pale face of her sleeping body,
I didn’t cry.
My eyes were as dry as the deceitful clouds above,
who threatened with billowing masses of dark and gray,
but didn’t rain.

I saw a man bent with age
touch her waxen cheek and turn away,
sobbing bitterly.

Maybe it was more than age that bent him.

I didn’t get to say goodbye,
but when I saw his face that day,
as he looked into his love’s dead features,
I thought perhaps the pain of goodbye
is sharper even than death.

I know the man; his smile has returned
over the long years,
but behind his eyes the tears will often dance,
and when I see them threatening to rain,
I want to cry for him.
And for her.

My eyes were dry as stone that day,
that cold, February day long ago,
but now as I look back upon it,
I cry.