wistfulness
Don't cry, I thought. Don't cry--and prepare a story in case someone asks you if you're crying or, worse yet, why you're crying.
I just cry at these kinds of things, I imagine myself saying. You know, weddings, funerals. . .. My voice trails offs and my imaginary conversation partner looks at me, a pregnant pause between us, and then they let me off the hook. I can say that honestly, I reassure myself. It wouldn't be a lie even if it was a little bit of a half truth.
It's over and I'm in the bathroom and the tears come. I'm crying and I don't know why and yet I do know why--I'm crying for the family that I almost had. I let myself cry for a few breaths as I stare at myself in the mirror. I crumple, momentarily sinking out of my own view. Rising again, I dab at my face with cold water hoping that I've doctored myself in time so that no one will know. I fear that if someone sees my pain they'll misinterpret it as jealousy, and perhaps it is. However, it's not the jealously of winners and losers. I want everyone to have everything that they have and more. I don't want anyone to lose anything. Honestly, I celebrate the fact that they have this thing that I do not.
. . .It's more a wistfulness than a jealousy, really, a wistfulness for what isn't tinged with the regret of what is.