I cried not for two days, but for two years. "I've lost my best friend," I said to myself as I walked through the snow to the fields in the park. Of course I loved her. For two years I cried. I sat down in the snow leaning against the trunk of of a tree. That was forty years ago. I still do not know how and exactly why I could have cried steadily for two years, but I had. Maybe I was unconsciously mourning the loss of the love I never received from my mother who remained deeply depressed throughout her life. I don't know. Cara never knew anything about this. I remember the evening when I stopped crying. I just stopped. I guess I had cried enough. But two years crying every waking moment of evey day. Unbelievable. What happened to me so long ago makes me think of Steinbeck because he had an exquisite sensitivity to life. He is my favorite novelist because I sense he felt powerfully about what he was going to write. So many writers contrive. The great ones feel first.

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks