To feel the wellspring in the back of your throat burst up and push at the walls behind your eyes and nose; a throb, throb, throbbing, indifferent to the curious spectators on the other side (the boss at his desk) (the passerby on the sidewalk).
The sigh before the wellspring bursts that at once hurts and salves the heart; that at once lifts and intensifies the lump in the throat and the weight in the stomach.
The desperate final attempt to suppress a perfect storm, an uphill battle against Mother Nature herself (who lives, as we know, in the back of the throat as much as in heaven’s hovering rainclouds).
And then you cry.
