Verge o' tears

Verge o' tears. That's my new address: Firmly planted on the verge o' tears.

It all started in our little library in the basement of the church, reading my first prisoner letter of the day. Actually, it all started in my apartment when I fit into a smaller pair of jeans that rested somewhere that jeans ought not rest, bruising my hips.

And then I walked eight miles in them.

After that, though, the tears kept coming. The first prisoner letter asked for something so simple – an atlas or maybe an almanac – but I couldn't find one. Anywhere. And then there was the guy who wrote his letter at Thanksgiving and wanted a book, any book, and maybe some Christmas cards. The ones that blessed us and thanked us and said that they'd take anything at all.

For most of the hours that I packed books, most of them by myself in that little library in the basement of church somewhere across town, the tears kind of lurked at the backs of my eyes. Stinging a little. But I blinked them back and read through the letters, found books on the shelves and wrote letters. I wrapped them all in brown paper, addressed them, weighed and sorted them and in a few days, I'll go back to take them to the post office.

The tears just got in the way. I allowed myself to cheer, though. Once in a while. When I found the Muhammad Ali book for the guy who liked boxing – I had gone through every book in the sports section. Twice. And briefly considered sending him something on Andre the Giant before I uncovered the bio. I cheered for the Mario Puzo book that I found for the mob/mafia guy and I cheered when another volunteer found a paperback atlas.

And then I had to go. I needed to haul my squeezed-in-almost-too-small-jeans bum closer to home for my Getting Started meeting for the Breast Cancer walk, and then, the tears kept coming. My eyes started to prickle when I picked up stickers relating to all my ties to breast cancer – to my grandmothers, my aunts, my friends – and I thought of my own wacky genetics.

They started to burn when I saw everyone else raising their hands, all with their own reasons for walking.

They positively welled when the leader talked of a woman raising funds by walking a treadmill in front of Target.

They spilled when I watched the video from walks past.

I wiped the tears away. I pretended I wasn't crying with my oh-so-sly, "I'm just holding my cheek in my hand" move. Nobody was fooled, but I didn't mind. I could hear sniffling behind me. Besides, I could always blame the jeans.

Despite the change of address, despite my seemingly permanent move to verge o' tears, I found myself laughing at the thought of 35 pounds for three days of walking. 35 pounds? I carried far less for a month in Africa. Including my sleeping bag.

I smiled at the thought of towel service. And the friends I would make. And the relationships I would strengthen.

As I walked the rest of the way home (back to verge o' tears), I thought of names for the team I would form and I would form a team. I would encourage others. I would help them to train. I just needed a little more time and bigger box of tissues.

(The funny part is that I have Shiny Happy People running through my head.)



Tag: Volunteering