Without realizing it, I often talk in this blog in the feminine. Women, between us, we find it easy to share feelings. I think we learn from small. Looking back, when I was little, I see the holidays, crouched in a corner of the kitchen, while my grandmother, my mother and my aunts, stirring pots, it had life. In that kitchen, the absolute dominion of my grandmother, came out to shine family secrets, desires and sorrows, joys contained ... Cross the threshold of the kitchen magic is diluted. That kitchen of my childhood was a confessional.
Yes, probably why I am comfortable talking female here, because I'ma woman, but that does not ignore the pain of men. On the contrary, I admire his courage because I know most of the time crying in silence the death of their children, with a heartbreaking sense of a wounded animal. I admire those who are there, holding desperately trying to re-invent his life, raise their own, without being able to express just what I feel. It is impossible to generalize, every match is different, but I do not know, to me seems that men, at first, contained more or less but are removed at risk of falling deeper. It costs more given permission to leave the locked cabinet where they keep emotions.
My father, a man of the past, on those which were not in the kitchen never tells me surprised and maybe a little embarrassed now, 81 years old-is-crying for almost nothing. "I've become very lazy, girl, I'm not what it was," and instead tells me we both know that our hearts have never been so close.
The resurgence of grief goes through this, to let the feelings flow, whatever they are, before they become a bitter black on a rock so heavy that prevents us from returning to life. It hurts to see mourn a father, but it's so healing to do!
With every tear that we leave it lightens the soul.
have to hold hands with men who hide their pain and caress with tenderness to disarm, one by one, with love, their armor. Women have been clothed in many kitchens, but they are so alone with your emotions!
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