Benjamin had a hard day. We posted several times on our family group chat, asking for supportive calls. In less than a minute the phone would ring, and a caring brother or sister would reel him back in from his internal labyrinth of circular thinking. It still astonishes me, both how they manage to interrupt their work day to reach out, and the intuitive games they have created to lure him. 

 

John and I made guesses about his distress. Was it because his sister left? She only came for the birthday party. Was he dehydrated? Overheated? He does wear clothes more appropriate for work than a summer afternoon. It was not that he was bleeding into self injury, or hitting others. He was merely vocalizing, and swinging his arms in agitation. Somehow I wanted a reason to point to, to make sense for me. As if that would lessen his distress. It was, I admit, more about calming me than him. It was my habit with my babies, too. 

 

"Yes, I hear that you are crying. But why?"

 

Maybe it doesn't matter. Perhaps sadness doesn't always need a list of ingredients, or a flow chart to how you got there. 

 

I read another heartbreaking article about children at the border. One described a girl who was crying uncontrollably. The journalists were warned not to reach out to her, on the threat of being thrown out themselves. What I don't get is why the kids weren't all crying uncontrollably. It's possible that at times they have, or worse, buried their unimaginable grief like the evidence of a murder. Which is eerily similar to what is happening. 

 

It occurred to me that Benjamin's upset was connected to the collective pain felt by thousands of children who have no family close by to respond to their anguish. So they hurl their keening into the sky like a flock of crows, who carry the sorrow to a distant land.