And I can’t claim fashionably. I covered a Remembrance Day service – and I arrived half an hour late. I was stressed. There were slow vehicles. Finding parking added to my frustration. Crying to my mom en route over Bluetooth probably didn’t help.
When I arrived, I dotted my damp face. I grimaced as the Last Post echoed when I entered the venue. Camera in one hand. Notebook in the other, I hung my head in shame. I felt like a crappy reporter. Letting my personal issues interfere with my job.
But I slapped on my game face, and I did what so-called good reporters do: play musical chairs. I hopped from seat to seat. Getting close ups. Wide shots. This angle. That angle. Work it, baby. Work it. Finally, I collapsed into a chair.
Which I didn’t know until after the service was reserved. The sign had fallen.
Just as I sat, a singer rose to the podium. I stared ahead, planning my next shot, and I didn’t recognize the song. Until I heard the chorus. And tears poured down my cheeks like rain. Dare I say I couldn’t breathe at one point.
The song was “Feels like Home,” by Chantal Kreviazuk.
And I cried. Because I’m not.