I know this girl

who can make herself cry

in less than a minute. She’s not even an actress

or had any sort of professional training

or et cetera, but I went to her house once

and she demonstrated while we were doing the dishes.

When I asked her why she was crying

she told me it was because she thought

the soap bubbles on her ceramic plates looked like lace.

Then she did it again when the front door opened:

eyes growing larger and larger,

balancing precariously on simple eyelashes.

This time she told me it was because she thought

her father had finally come home,

but it was only the dog.

Her father disappeared a few years ago

leaving behind the dog,

the ceramic tableware,

also a grandfather

who only sometimes knew her name and burped all throughout dinner.

The girl cried as she vacuumed that night,

and as we emptied the vacuum bag,

filling the trash can with lots of strands of dog hair

and tufts of elderly pink scalp.

When it came time for me to go, she made me promise to visit soon.

I promised. Then she cried. This time it was because

she believed me.