In Session
Sin Eater
[a 50-word story]
She tells them, “Tears are big feelings. Feelings too big for words.”
“It’s okay to let your feelings out. That’s why I’m here. You’re safe.”
She accepts them at their worst. Cheers them at their best.
She soaks up every sin. Dries every eye.
Until there’s nothing left.
Of her.
Parental Consent
[a 50-word story]
She says my daughter’s anxiety is “adaptive.”
That I’m not listening, that calm is contagious, that I need to find a way to get along with my ex.
Meanwhile, rent’s late, car needs tires, and these sessions cost $200 a week.
When we leave, my daughter hugs her, not me.
Progress Notes
[a 50-word story]
I tell them, therapy isn’t magic. It’s work.
Some want directions, a recipe. Some want answers. Some want miracles.
I sit. I listen. Write, ‘stable mood,’ ‘good insight,’ and mean it.
Once, a child drew me with angel wings.
My wings were HUGE.
My eyes were crossed.
Pretty darn accurate
Common Sense
[a 50-word story]
My mom’s always raggin on me, ‘Don’t do nothin stupid,’ she says.
I go, “Yeah?” then leave, run the woods, hop a train all the way to Danny’s in Kalamazoo. Crash there a while. Hang out. Chill. Smoke weed. Bum beers off his old man.
I’m not the stupid one.
Picture This
[a 50-word story]
Two yellow stick figures hold hands on a purple bridge. A river runs black beneath them.
I smile, ask, “Who’s that?”
“That’s you,” she points. “And here’s me.”
“This side is my grandma’s. And this side is school.”
She scribbles.
“You stay on the bridge, though.”
“Home is down there.”
Toxicology
[a 50-word story]
To the adopted child who won’t talk.
The addicted father who can’t stop.
The girl with sleeves pulled over her wrists.
“You’re safe,” she says. “I’m with you.” “Breathe.”
She collects our poison on legal pads, tissues, the wire basket at our feet, in the lines forming around her eyes.
After Hours
[a 150-word story]
On Thursday nights, she leads parent sessions at the Community Center.
Fold-out chairs. Plastic tablecloth. Coffee, cream, oat milk in ceramic carafes.
Her mug reads ‘Be Kind, Always.’ The glaze is chipped near the handle.
“Model calm,” she tells them. “Children mirror what they see.”
Some nod. Some smile. Some look away.
A hand goes up. Big guy, tattoos, asks, “What if my kid just hates me?”
She smiles, leans in, fingertips together. “Then start there,” she says. “Start by listening.”
She stacks the chairs, wipes the tables, empties the trash herself. A ghost with paperwork, reflected in the window.
She sits in her car afterward. Just sits. The engine running, going nowhere.
I want to tap on her window. Tell her it’s okay.
Instead, I write our initials in the frost on my windshield. Small, in the corner where she won’t notice until later.
Or maybe never.
Probably never.