Therapy

'They call it therapy but I don't know,'
says Phyllis as she sits in the chair,
eyes a little wild,
fingers twisting endlessly
round the tie-belt of her jacket.
She wants to talk about the hairdresser
so we speak softly for an hour
of smells and heat and coffee 
with chemicals and not much sugar,
(her words), her tongue suddenly smacking
against her lips 
as if disappointed again by the taste.

I don't know why 
she wants to talk about the hairdresser
today.
I sense she wants to be in a happy place,
grope for conviviality half remembered,
be someone who shops and has her hair done,
sit in a warm corner,
but it may be more about 
the neat new cut and blow dry, 
scent of lacquer not quite dissipated,
eliciting a compliment from our receptionist.
Or maybe I just look like her hairdresser.

As she leaves she suddenly reaches out,
tugs my hair, touches my cheek.
'I spigot you,' she says.
Her brow furrows, glazed eyes brighten.
'Oh no, I mean love you.
What did I say? Love, I mean, love.'
The door bangs.
Shocked by the abrasive word and gesture
evoking something that intrudes
uncomfortably my stomach tightens.
Did she want to say she loves me
or something quite different?

'They call it therapy, but I don't know,'
says Phyllis, as she always does,
next time.
'There'll be no sense out of you today,
young lady.' 
Impatiently she motions me to sit.
Seeing suspicion in her eyes 
I sense her need to take control,
receive acceptance of exasperation
before we can trust each other
or even sit together without
tensed muscles and friction in the air.

'What do I come here for?' she accuses.
Without pausing, eyes narrowed,
'I know you all. You make me do what you want,
take pills, eat fish, sing songs...'
She begins to wail then snaps into a verse
of 'Puppet on a String'.
In the silence that follows we stare at one another,
slightly bemused.
I feel awkwardly for some response.
Before I speak she begs,
'Sing with me, go on,'
and together we stumble through the number.

Today the hour limps by;
we jolt from angry outburst 
to tearful half-story where truth lies 
in strange places - a look, a tone,
a wordless memory no less real for
lurking un-named among shadows, 
affection's frayed ends brushing our arms
as we join with the long-dead
and last night's care assistant
to live today's cause,
making sense of the only time there is.
Now. 


©Janet Henderson January 2018