Crocodile style

I can remember seeing my mother cry like a common nine year old.  Tears were running crocodile style and she was heaving for breath.  Her wails were not like childbirth, painful, but full of expectation.  They were the tears of a foolish women who thought she had found a shortcut in the woods.  She perceived that maybe the time she wasted could be forgotten in the depths of the enchanted forest.  She heard the sound of laughter and the sound of joy and supposed the others had taken a similar path.  She longed to laugh like they laughed and be joyous like they were joyous.  Alas she found that they were not laughing, they were laughing at her.  They were not full of joy, but wine and they were drunk.  The only thing she found in the depths of the woods was the big bad wolf.  She cried not because he was going to consume her, but because she had no where to run to and options were fleeting.  Her back was against the wall and there was no ladder this time.  That is why she cried like a common nine year old.  Tears running down her cheeks crocodile style.