Harriet Marquis
Therapy II
The clatter of her walker in the hall
heralds her arrival.
Her breathing’s hard, more of a gasp.
No way today, I think,
she’ll take the stairs
down to my basement office.
“Come on along then,” I say.
“We’ll meet upstairs here in my study.
It’s a bit chaotic but will serve.
Will the sofa do?
It’s old but strong.”
(Like you) I think.
In the session she recalls
her drunken father leaving,
and her mother working nights
to give her brilliant daughter
a better chance in life.
Last night she dreamed about the time
she took her French beginners
on a trip to Paris.
But the night before
a dream reminded her
of a bitter fight with administration
for a teachers’ union.
Later on we speak of the hip replacement
she’s had done, the slow recovery,
compared to one five years ago
when her husband was alive.
She could see his dementia settling in,
his puzzled frown, the unkempt clothes,
his frazzled hair and wariness of strangers.
“He had a fear of falling down.
And did—five times,” she said.
“I couldn’t pick him up, and in the end,
I had to put him in that place he dreaded so.
“We were almost strangers
when he died. Funny,
I don’t think I miss him.
Why is that, I wonder?
“I’m just lonely now.
“Last week my daughter came.
She’s tired from chemo,
but a bright spot all the same.
“I guess my time is almost up.
I’ll be going then. I see May Sarton
on your shelf. Such a fine poet!
It’s been a while since I’ve thought of her.
“I’d like to get back to my writing.
I will in Spring,
when my daughter
comes again.”
Harriet Marquis is a retired psychoanalyst and former English teacher, currently living in Charlotte, NC. Her work has appeared in the International Journal of Psychoanalytic Self Psychology, the Journal of New Jersey Poets, and Open Minds Quarterly.
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