A spontaneous wild write by Cynthia Cummins during Green Gulch farm workshop “Invoke Your Muse” on March 4

Lemons make me cry. The smell of this lemon is making me cry. It is making me want to walk outside and feel the wind cooling my tears dry. Or feel the rain joining me.

Where is this sadness from?

It’s piquant. Like my youngest son’s sweet smile. My youngest son — the sun beside his older brother’s sun.

My galaxy.

The older is a sunny melancholic, or so they described him at school. It gave his temperament a label that made sense. He was sunny. Then he was melancholy. Then he was sunny. Then he was…

Same for the younger. Sunny. Melancholy. Sunny…

Same for me. It fit with the shadowy Blue Ridge mountain landscape of my youth. Years later — emerging from the hollers, emerging from adolescence, from my 20s, from my 30s — my sun came out. Sad, lemony and so bright it stung.

My sons’ suns are so bright they burn a welcomed brand when the clouds clear off.

Last week, after a college visit, I said goodbye to my youngest. Standing there on a perfect blue-sky, sunny day in the Sunshine State, I began to cry. And in his face I saw the perfect response. I saw he would cry with me if he needed to. He wouldn’t cry if he didn’t need to. There’d be no attempt to stop me crying. He would simply witness my crying in a loving way.

His sweetness made me cry more. My lemony boy with the smile so thick like marmalade.

I cried all the way over the Sunshine Skyway Bridge and thought how lucky I am to be so sad.

I lead writing and mindfulness workshops throughout the Bay Area. My approach is adaptable in many settings — from helping groups honor an important life event to assisting a business team in articulating a shared vision. Contact me to learn more. For information on my San Francisco real estate practice, visit RealEstateTherapy.org or CynthiaCummins.com.