Handle with care


Sometimes I cry and I have no idea why. There are times I’m sitting watching a show or reading a book, and although it’s nothing sad, I feel a wave of grief, as though I’ve lost something immeasurably precious to me, and I choke up and tears start flowing. I don’t know what it means, other than probably being a symptom of my bipolar.

I’ve never been one to ridicule a man who cries. The toughest man I ever knew was my dad, and anyone who knew the colonel knew it. And this man, who served through three wars, who saw so much death and destruction, was the same man who sobbed as he worked on a beautiful stained-wood coffin for my sister’s Irish setter when he had to be put to sleep. The same man who cried when one of our cats would die.

So I don’t have any…

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