Therapy Poem by Marc Mannheimer

The last time I saw my first therapist
she was standing at the door waving in her red dress
She was a middle-aged lady, a little plump, no hint of gray
Her mood was always moderate; she seemed to be on top of it

But I was very young
and the surety of my “knowledge”
kept me from hearing
what I needed to hear

She was a wailing wall
where I would not cry
when weeping was all
I was doing inside

Twenty years later, I find a hint of softening
I’ve walked the deepest craters but the difficulty’s lessening
I’ve seen a host of counselors, some gifted, some just comforting
Their words, and my suffering, itself,
like sandpaper on the surface of my heart’s stone