Listening

She is crying so hard she has stopped making any noise. What was an earsplitting whine only moments before is now a panting whisper. But it will start again. The crying always comes in waves.

Her sobbing forces a stream of saliva that has welled up in her mouth to rush out, sending a long, silvery filament down her chin, and on to her lap. When she lifts her head to smear the tears from her cheek, the strand of saliva attaches to her knuckle, and bows upward. Light from the window sparkles through it like dew on a spider web. Her hand is shiny with tears when she drops it back to her lap.

“I don’t know why...why this is hap...happening,” she gurgles. “He didn’t even give it a chan...” And thus she resumes her bellowing.

Of course I can’t tell her it’s her fault David left her. I can’t tell her that she was overbearing and selfish. I can’t tell her that the only problems in their 32 year marriage were her own. I can’t tell her that the reason David spent three thousand dollars, and two years learning Spanish, in order to move to South America, and away from her, is because she is unbearable as a person, and totally unable to take into consideration the needs of another human being. I can’t tell her the truth because she is paying me to listen. If I did, she would fire me and simply go to another therapist.

Five minutes ago, when this session began, she told me that she had started heating up towels in the dryer, and when she went to bed she would set them on the empty space next to her, where she would curl up, crying, and hold them as though they were her missing husband.

I should charge double for this shit.

These final sessions of the day are always the hardest, but this one is an absolute basket case, and I don’t know if I’m more disgusted by her blubbering, or by the comforting things I am about to say to her. But I will comfort her. I will make her tears stop, and she will tell her friends and coworkers how nice it is to have a therapist, who will “just listen.” And for this I will be paid. But for once it would be good to be honest.

Waving Goodbye

As the line shuffled, shoeless toward the airport metal detector, my parents and ten-year-old cousin waved to me in unison from the non-passenger waiting area. I waved back and smiled. Slowly the line moved, and as I neared the detector I turned again toward the waiting area. My parent’s began to wave, and I waved back.

After a short wait I passed through the metal detecting arch uneventfully, and as I waited for my carry-on bag, and other possibly threatening objects to coast down the slide from the x-ray machine, I looked back toward my family, who were watching me intently. As my eyes met theirs they waved and smiled. I waved too, and smiled.

When I had tied my laces and strapped my carry-on firmly around my shoulders, I walked toward the escalator that would carry me up to the terminals. As I ascended I glanced over my shoulder, and smiled at my family whose hands were still moving side to side, as though polishing imaginary glass.