On a personal note, I'd like to think that's why I've rarely wept on the job. That is, I'm too professional.
The truth is I'm too much of a misanthrope to bawl. Tears take effort, empathy, time, and either privacy or explanation.
That's why I remember distinctly when it happens. Like once, while covering a murder trial in Napier, I was taken by surprise after hearing how a young girl reacted to seeing her father's body in the morgue. Heavy stuff.
On the drive back to Hastings, somewhere near Clive, I thought of my own kids without a father, and the road got a little blurry.
That was in 2010. Until last week it was the only time I'd emptied the ducts on the job.
The blame for my second moment of weakness lies squarely with understated Te Awanga photographer Richard Brimer.
On Wednesday, a story dropped into the newsdesk detailing his poignant photograph for auction at Cranford's charity soiree at Church Road Winery.
His photo was of the first flush of a Te Awanga dawn. Salt, silk surf and an ether of tangerine-blush.
It was captured just hours after his son, Joseph, died in his arms at the family home in Te Awanga.
The filters failed and my lids began to fill. I think I got away with it, no toilets necessary.
It's why on Saturday night, lucky enough to be sitting and sipping among the bidders during the auction, I couldn't stop looking at it.
My seat at the front table sat directly opposite this beauty inside a simple white frame.
Cranford's Helen Blaxland said the wine and hospice match was an apt one. That is, just as the weather has a direct impact on any vintage, the human form, too, is susceptible to the elements. The comments kept the glitzy night real.
As did the photographer's short address. His reading of his spectacular shot was that Joseph was telling him "everything is okay".
After this, and a few too many glasses of red, the integrity of the filters was again threatened. Thing is, drinking is another precious cornerstone of journalism, so my professionalism was compromised either way.
Watching the symbiosis of selfless local industries toasting the departed, and those who care for the departing, I realised this moment, on the first day of winter, was Hawke's Bay's finest hour.
There was wealth, there was bling, there was influence - yet there was also an acknowledgment of the unforgiving minute.
After chatting to Cranford staff, I realised dispassion is a luxury - and one hospice staff can't afford. Empathy replaces objectivity as the cornerstone. It's one admirable gig.
The singular highlight was always going to be Lot 20.
Thank you, Mr Brimer, for opening that shutter and forcing this old curmudgeon to drop the filters twice in one week.
It's a testament to your art - and a testament to Joseph - that you caught light in that dark dawn.
A representation of what Cranford stands for lies neatly within that simple white frame.
Mark Story is deputy editor at Hawke's Bay Today
