Crying out loud

Walking around Chicago last week there were times when I cried: missing my brother Nick, Aunt Jane, Uncle Jake, my youthful anticipation for what was out ahead of me. Christmas has a unique charm and
drama that lays out a microcosm of memories, both good and bad, to be picked through and fondled like old toys or pressed flowers from lost loves. The fear is if you handle them too much they might turn to dust.
But what good are they if you never take them out of their hiding places. I love all of them. I don't hate any of it. It is as much a part of me as my gray hair and my wrinkled hands. None of it is gone but only wrapped up
inside of me to be redistributed through my heart and my love. Tears can flow for many reasons. Thank God for all of them.