Rame (verb): to moan, cry or weep

“It’s not your fault.”

The words stabbed into his skin like salt on a wound. He wanted to hear more of it, he wanted her to comfort him, he wanted to become a child again so that he could shamelessly run into her arms and bawl into her hug.

But he didn’t. The CEO stood planted into the ground, hands clenched, eyes half shut, his heart screaming and aching.

“Oh, come on. What kind of sapling grows without rain?”

Rip!— Her hands, with bones so frail and skin so creased, reached for the roll of paper towels on her janitorial cart and tore off a piece. Rather than offering it, she gently grabbed his cheeks between her old fingers and wiped the silver lining of his eyes.

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He hadn’t realized he was crying.

“It doesn’t matter if you messed up today. You failed. You have failed. You will fail. But don’t let that change who you are. You’re enough. You’re loved.”

Soothing, husky, and reminiscent of a crackling fireplace on a snowy evening, her lullaby eased the coil that tightened in his stomach.

“Look at how far you’ve come. I’ve always had faith in you and I still do now. Sure the road ahead is long and you’ll run into storms in the future, that’s just life. You don’t have to apologize for being a human.”

Like a dam finally collapsing from its buildup, the CEO’s tears suddenly flowed free and fell in fat drops from his eyes. He sobbed and whined like a baby, burying his red face into the old janitor of his company.