And so we’re back again. Back searching for the moment you stopped believing your mother. The moment you swallowed the line your father cast when he reeled you in to share his black depths. Now you tread water. A weekly routine. I nudge the tissue box across my desk with a pen, give the clock a sideways glance. In the next twenty minutes I’ll guide you through islands of despair—teenage drug use, rehab, worthless men—to the safe harbour of my white prescription pad. At the door, I’ll press a medication slip, appointment card and bill into your eager hands.
By Marie Gethins