That was the winter of the eye goop. The winter I became a monster of mechanics. I’d heat compresses in the microwave until they were almost too hot to touch, then press them to her closed lid, watching the dried mucus soften and liquefy. I’d hold her arms down with one elbow while my other hand worked the massage, my thumb chafing raw. She learned to hate my touch. She’d turn her face away, press her cheek into the mattress, hide the offending eye.
The balloon procedure was scheduled for a Tuesday. On the Sunday before, something shifted. how do you unblock a tear duct
You don’t. You hold the child. You wait. You learn the difference between a problem that needs solving and a body that needs time. That was the winter of the eye goop
I knelt in the gravel. I didn’t reach for a warm cloth. I didn’t press my thumb to her nose. I just opened my arms, and she walked into them, and I felt the dampness of her working eye soak into the shoulder of my shirt. I’d hold her arms down with one elbow
The tears lasted a week. Then the crust returned. Thicker than before. The duct had scarred closed, more stubborn than ever.
The first time my daughter cried, nothing came out.