Two Hundred and Forty One

Rachel wept, and Mary wept; but she never wept, even though she had as much cause as they.  More, because they were consoled by the thought that god saw their tears, even though no one else did.  She said weeping is a display for others, a bid for their sympathy; and she’d seen too much, knew too much, to expect sympathy.  She knew what I am only now learning.

There is no consolation. 

I thought I'd found it in philosophy.  She thought I had, too, and could teach her to find it there as well.  But I misled her. 

Or did I?  I think she knew I was a fool, and loved me anyway.