They are the only two she lets fall. She is the only one who feels them. Two silent tears filled with great pain and infinite hope. Two who paint her face every night in silence. Two salty memories created by the past. From my heart I faintly hear them, but she just smiles and insists all is well.

Their meaning is veiled. They make stubborn stains on her pillow. They fall swiftly and they fall hot and release her heart during their nightly appearance and blur the memories with each drop and always quiet her soul. This is how she deals.

If a melancholy one forgot to drop, she’d be free like bluebirds in the sky, each with their own sweetly whistled song. Fall, fall, fall, tears say when she forgets. They fall.

When she is too aged and too learned to keep weeping, when she is a strong force against so many memories, then perhaps they will lessen each night. When there is real hope found to carry her in this life. Two who will fall till that day. Two who come and do not forget to come. Two whose quiet purpose is to heal and heal.