Where Are My Tears?
Winner of The Frank McDonald Prize
IDON’T KNOW how to describe it in words. It’s like holding ice for too long and being left numb … I don’t remember ever feeling like this before. It is new. I crawl under my covers thinking maybe I just need to cry, but no tears come. They seemed to be frozen, like ice, that is perceived as fragile and easily thawed. After holding these tears for so long, they should begin to melt, like ice enclosed in a hand, and allow in the warmth that is desperately trying to seep in, but they don’t.
So instead I sit, subconsciously nurturing the unwelcome feeling that is weighing on me; nothing at all.
I wake to the pitiful faces of my parents. “We’re leaving in half an hour,” Dad says, glancing at me uncomfortably with the uncertainty at how I will react. Ironic, as even I don’t know that.
Still no cracks in the ice engulfing my insides, bit by bit.
Fifteen minutes later, I get out of bed and put on my unused black dress and pull my hair out of my face.
We walk up to the top of the church and kneel down beside her parents. Everyone is crying, and I look so stupid. Where are my tears? I look up and see her picture, along with her favourite teddy. A stark reminder of her youth. Items that further my confusion on my lack of emotion. I miss her, I know that fon rc I miss her brilliant humour and her problemsolving laugh. So where are my tears?
THREE WEEKS later I am back in school, sitting by myself at the back of the class with an empty desk beside me. I come to the conclusion that the ice inside me is now dry and indestructible, and begin to give up on the melting process, leaving me feeling unrelentingly cold. I accept grievances from unfamiliar faces with a simple “thank you”. All the while trying to find the smallest ounce of strength to crack this painful ice. At lunch I sit down at our table, but see her younger sister sitting alone, so I join her with a cautious smile.
No words are exchanged, just uncertain glances. I worry she has noticed my lack of tears throughout the previous weeks and I look down, shamefully. But she suddenly puts her hand on mine, and there is a glimpse of heat. A glimpse of comfort, and I feel the crack, and I feel the thaw, and the steady drip of the ‘indestructible’ ice falling down my face, and I realise that I didn’t need a pitiful blowtorch of unmeaningful words to melt this feeling, I only needed an understanding hand, a simple flame.
I now understand that grief, like ice, is difficult. It has many forms, many shapes, many layers. But if you want to reach a point where ice can flow freely, without the confinement of the cold, you must allow yourself the comfort of some heat, devoid of the unavoidable guilt that comes with allowing it and moving on, because I now realise that the water will always be there with you, but it will be free and flowing, ready to provide gentle waves of comfort when they are needed most. ■
Frank McDonald was born in Dublin in 1932. He was an avid reader and a short story writer, and was a regular contributor to Ireland’s Own. Following his retirement from his job as a bookbinder in 1998, Frank spent more than 10 years teaching adult literacy classes in Finglas. During these years he introduced many people to the joy of reading and writing. He was married to his wife, Lily, for over 60 years and had four children and five grandchildren. His family has very generously donated a €250 prize which was awarded to a new writer in the competition whose work stands out and left a lasting impression on our judges.