My girl always checks

for tear-stained flecks

on my middle-aged cheeks.

They don’t play hide and seek,

because those tears that fall

don’t make me feel small.

They’re not drops of doom

on a melancholy costume.

There are two types of tears:

one regrets time; one gains years.

The first cries for loss of self,

the second cheers for spiritual wealth.

So when I see my little girl swim,

my happy tears fill to the brim,

because she’s doing what she came here to do.

So I leave bitter tears for others to rue.