Therapy
A poem
here is a brotherhood forged in those fourteen steps from my therapist’s office to the waiting area, between me and the other man I meet without a word. Matt, let’s call him, or Dave, he looks like a Dave — his thinning hair, fading sweatshirt, and tired eyes betray a heart touched by sorrow (and a wallet touched by therapy bills). Where among the bursting shells of existence we match a glance and his eyes ask, you too? With an exhale I answer, you too?
Sometimes when it’s my turn to wait, I let my mind out the open window, and as it drifts on a honey breeze, it imagines that somewhere out there is a kind of therapy heaven. Where all the traumas are resolved, the wounds healed, hearts strong, and we are well. Dave sees me coming, and we run into one of those man hugs, but without the back pats that disclose we are Still Tough Guys, because here, we aren’t. We just know now that we aren’t alone.
Photo by Martin Péchy on Unsplash
