5th Excerpt From Mind Emerging

            Actually go sit in the television lounge for group therapy.

The therapist asks how I feel. I answer, “The trees are bent, shed leaves. I need brooms to sweep them up.”

            The therapist moves on from me and begins discussion with someone else.

            Can’t she hear my A B C’s, hear that I’m dying over a missing broom. Grandmother liked her porch swept clean. Stay listening to me long enough to learn that a broom ties me to leaves, ties me to grandmother, ties me to the grief of losing grandma, ties me to my heart; broken pieces of it mix with leaves.

            Please help me be less silent. Don’t forget me because I speak on slant. Speak to the wind that lifts arms. My arms gather nothing. I am afraid of this nothing.

            It used to be bundles of tulips, paper bows of silk, bellies of Buddhas, buttons of God.

            The weight of my chest freezes me in place, keeps me from eating.

            I am once again afraid of the television lounge.

*

            The earth broke in front of me. I could not grab the sun; holy shit!—I’m glad it will be over soon. Life is a canister filled with gummy bears. End this conflict with skinny therapists who dismiss me because I say red is more than red. I am left to wish for ears that have been taught exactly how to hear. The earth did break in front of me. I could not grab the sun.

*

            I write about Sally. Sally is one of the characters I have brought to the page in companionship. I write of her totem—the wind looks to the totem and breaks through the open mouth, rests in the knot of pine, the smooth pine at the back of the throat. There is a low hum of wind. It is this sound that draws Sally out, not a kick to the shin. Not a soft thump to the wrist. But a hum of wind no louder than a sock tossed to the floor in a tired gesture of the day’s end.

            Sally lifts herself from the hopscotch. Chalk softens her feet, blue chalk the color of the bridge on the playground. In a long steady stride, she moves toward the totem on which rests a wren that bears her name, Sally. Tonight, she will sit with other children, eat potatoes, share stories about being lost long enough to find wind.

            A psych tech calls my name, asks me if I want my lunch tray. I walk forward and take it from her hands. A roast beef sandwich, lemon pie for dessert. There is dessert with every meal other than breakfast. On the outside, I rarely eat dessert. In here, sugar is a welcome thing.

*

            My mind no longer is axed open. Realities don’t roll through me down to my toes affecting my walk. The drumming in my head and the torment of voices berating me is down to a minimum. My speech has been made simple. I say tree, say dog, say hat and not have them mean anything they aren’t. The world is calm. I smell the citrus of the psych tech’s soap. I get out of my private taxi, placing my hand in Guy’s callused hand.

            On the way out, I thank the staff for once again taking such good care of me. They never cease believing in my ability to bring realities together in which I don’t drown but remain full of breath. I tell them I will see them at Christmas, not for a stay, but to drop off a box of Godiva chocolates.

            The door unlocks and then locks behind us. I am free to make my own pancakes and use as much butter as I want. I am free to say I love you to Guy.

            It is a day of few clouds and lots of green grass. I feel blessed once again to belong in the world where postal workers deliver mail and detectives solve crimes.