The last time I cried, I had fallen on concrete and scraped my leg. The tears pricked my eyes and embarrassment knawed on my heart. My grandfather made his way over to me and lifted my chin. I expected comfort and tenderness. I wanted comfort and stability. But I got disappointment and rage. My grandfather lifted my chin, looked me in the eye and told me as a young boy and asked me if I want to be a man some day.

I nodded my head, sniffled my nose, and focused on his next words. Maybe things would’ve been different if I wasn’t listening so intently. Maybe I would be a different person. Maybe I would be the kind of man who doesn’t care to cry. Maybe I would’ve cried at my grandfather funeral, my wedding, or the loss of my mother. But I couldn’t allow myself. I let his words echo and bounce off the inside of my skull.

“If you want to be a man some day, you will get up. You will dry your eyes, and you will never cry again. Men don’t cry, boy. Do you hear me?” I surely knitted my brows together and swallowed the lump in my throat. I wanted to be a man. I wanted to make him proud. But most of all, I didn’t want to be weak. My grandmother grumbled at him for being hard on me, told him I was just a boy. He told her that’s all I would ever be if I didn’t learn. I wiped the tears from my eyes and focused on bottling the feelings back on. I wanted the lid glued permanently, never able to be opened again.

Satisfied that I listened, Grandfather turned to shuffle away. Under his breath he grumbled about how he had gone to war, lost his son, and seen more than most men but he was a man and men do not cry.

Men do not cry.

Except men do cry. Men can cry. I spent many years building up those feelings, telling myself I cannot cry. Refusing to allow myself to fully feel. To fully be human. When my wife passed away, I still remained dry. Not for lack of feeling, but so certain that I had to remain strong for our son.

But today I cried. I cried because my son was upset. He misses his mother. And in an effort to comfort him, I did what I knew how to do. I said positive words, offered affection, and asked him if he needed something. His response changed me. Shifted something in me.

“I’m not like you. I’m not strong. I miss her so much. And I just want her back,” he sobbed out. I began to speak, to tell him that’s ridiculous, that he is strong. He lost his mother, he didn’t have to be okay. And then it hit me. He lost his mother. He didn’t have to be okay. He could cry if he needed to. I was not my father.

“You are strong. That’s why you will survive this. She wouldn’t have it any other way,” gripping his shoulder, I speak the words softly.

“But look at me. I can’t- I can’t stop,” he says sobbing.

“Son.”

“No, I’m trying to be like you but I can’t. I can’t not be upset. How do you do it?” His eyes look to me pleading. The weight placed on this boy. The expectations to be nonfeeling despite his life never being the same. The grief, the pain the sorrow are all radiating off his young body in waves. I felt the hot, wet streak before I even realized what it was. “Dad?” He noticed. Possibly even before I did. I can’t remember. But something in his demeanor changed. He softened. Maybe fear from a new sight. Maybe sympathy for a grieving husband. Maybe it was the fact he could see the young broken boy I was. I cleared my throat, let a few more tears fall and I began to speak. But I can feel the dam loosening and words threaten to shatter it. So I straighten my mouth, let the leak trickle and pull my son in for a hug.

“Being a man isn’t about this. It’s about how you treat others, how you carry yourself, and what you bring to this world. Some tears are not going to change that. I am sorry I haven’t made you feel like you can feel. Grieve your mother, son. And don’t make yourself believe that means you won’t be a good man. You know what my grandpa told me once?” I ask him. He nods.

“I fell when I was a kid and scraped my leg. My grandfather told me it was okay to be upset. That it was human. I didn’t believe him. I was stubborn. I thought I couldn’t cry. Couldn’t be upset. He tried to tell me what I am trying to tell you now. Do you understand?” A deep sob breaks through as he nods then crashes into my chest. He hugs me, tight. I lied to him. But I think I told him what I wanted to hear all those years ago.