The Therapist {A Poem}

We sit in the newly cleaned room with the TV playing
Laughing at the wit and at the child, who is saying
In his own words how happy he is..
And then there is a knock, knock on the door
And with that knock, knock on the door
The room and the child both go silent, and to myself
I say, “It’s going to be okay.”

I remain sitting, but soon feel like I’m in the way
So I go upstairs, and begin to write, but find
That my mind is gone, and instead I hear what they say
About the child’s exercises. It hurts to hear, but what hurts more
Is when I hear the thump, thump, of someone coming upstairs
Because when I hear the thump, thump, I know they’re not for me, and
So again I tell myself, “It’s going to be okay.”

When the therapist leaves, I put away the writing
In which I failed to finish. My hands shake, inviting
Tears to my eyes that I quickly wipe away.
Downstairs I hear laughing, laughing of my family
And I join them, and we are laughing, laughing together
Because the child is doing well, says the therapist, and now
I say to myself, “It is okay.”