The Room

 

In the waiting area, after Hello, silence;

we are tongue tied by the house rule

never to trespass on the personal,  outside.

At 11,  the psychotherapist shuts the door on:

cheery smiles donned with coats

for the chatty cashier at the co-op,

an animated I’m fine to family and friends

who roll their eyes at depression’s monotone .

 

 ‘’ How is everyone this week?’’

We stare at the carpet, examine our nails….

reluctant to appear too greedy;

until Amy’s eyes begin to drip tears -

after years of schizophrenic husband attaching

himself to her like a tag as she cleans , shops, pees…

vomiting has become  her guilty pleasure.

 

Liz, relives tending daughter’s bruises,

her ‘Leave him’ parried with ‘Don’t start mum’;

striking the woman with the same paraplegic helplessness

as her six year old self 

unable to get ‘father to stop.’

 

‘Room’ etiquette means we listen in trappist silence

to each other’s Alan Bennett monologues,

then offer only palliative words ,

understanding that some lives are incurable.

 

12.30 the psychotherapist’s eyes flick to the wall clock.

We scatter with cheerful ‘Goodbyes’ and ‘See you next week’

like casual acquaintance from a Pilates class.