this is Beth, my would-be therapist, and me. When I fold-up the futon every day, I see this picture where it lies atop a stack of books at the head of my bed.
I want you to notice, she's been on my side of the table; the clowning, evading, surviving side. That's the face of knowing right there, she's aware of more than just the pain; she knows the peculiar route across the table, and the indelicate transition from survival to contentment. Rather than recline in it, she once stood on her chair, the seat of her own survival, long ago. Then, awash in a sea of disapproving glares—drawn always to any brave stance—and disregarding them, Beth stepped off.
Walking on tables is frowned upon. She understands this, and she knows that I may never move from the position in which I survive so well. She can translate the lingua franca of the other side; she knows the anguish which motivates a discussion of table decorations even as the house is burning down.
Beth knows the exquisite stabbing agony of a broken heart, which evicts the soul and stays indoors alone, which causes every will to collapse, and sets to sleeping the very strength needed to stand. But breaking out of it didn't kill her. It really kinda set her free. And I can see that from a great distance, from another world, from across this table.
I'm 42, yet still a little child, and she is watching amusedly, just waiting for me to finish.
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