We met, and he, red haired therapist, sat back in his black leather chair and drowned me in questions. I couldn't answer. I was considering them, but I couldn't answer. I heard them but I couldn't answer. All I could do was remember S and the way we used to talk after midnight and how his unfinished sentences were better than most people's poetry.
I said so, finally. "I don't know what to say." "Say nothing," he said. "I am not," I replied, ready to talk by having been told it was OK to say nothing, "wanting to do anything serious today. I have done a quarter milllion dollars worth of thinking this month and I am not wanting to say one more serious sentence."
"So say something lighthearted," he said.
Tears streamed down my face.
"I have an idea," he said. "How about I read you a story?" "All right," I said. "Stay here," he said, as if I was going to go outside that locked door.
He went upstairs and when he returned, he had a book. I put a pillow on my lap and he began reading Winnie the Pooh. And he read and I laughed and he read and I laughed and laughed and laughed.
It was wonderful.
"What was *that* about?" I said, as he closed the book.
"The missing experience," he said, with a soft smile and a look of satisfaction.