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“I was worried about you last night.” Her only child was a typical first-born: Responsible, organized, forthright. She was genuinely sorry that she had concerned him.

“I’m sorry, honey,” she said as she gave him a good morning hug. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. I just went for some coffee and lost track of time.”

“Next time, answer your cell phone,” he chided her. “What’s the house rule?”

“I know, I know . . . ” He was not making this easy for her.

“If you’re out of the house, your phone should be on and you need to answer it when you see that the call is from ‘home.'” His mocking impression of her was flawless — and stung a bit.

“O.K., I get the point, buddy,” she sighed, again hugging his broad shoulders as she stroked his stubbled cheek with the palm of her hand. “How did you get so big so fast?”

“Don’t change the subject, young lady,” he teased.

“That’s it. I’m getting in the shower,” she announced as she poured herself another cup of coffee before striding toward the bathroom.

“All right,” he laughed. “I’m going to school. See ya later!” As he ran out the door, he added, “Love ya, Mom!”

She didn’t remember ever feeling so exhausted, drained. As she looked out over the dark lake, illuminated only by the moonlight, she realized that she now understood the expression “tired to the bone” because she was convinced that her body had never felt this devoid of energy.

It was, in a surprising way, exhilarating. She knew that Dr. Nolan would label the events of this day a “breakthrough.” She could imagine the doctor smiling broadly with delight when she reported that she had spent the afternoon by herself, crying. Dr. Nolan had repeatedly encouraged her to “let go” and “process” her emotions, abandoning her normal reserve in favor of “feeling,” in the most visceral sense. Many times, listening to Dr. Nolan’s advice, she had resisted the urge to roll her eyes impatiently and attempt to change the topic of conversation. Now, however, she understood just why the doctor had been insistent that this simple exercise would be beneficial.

As relieved as she felt, however, she still had to make a decision and, of course, write the letter. Dr. Nolan’s pleasure would be short-lived . . . she would press for an update on her writing progress.

“Coffee,” she thought to herself as she shivered in the cold, dark vehicle. “And I really should get out of here. I don’t know how safe this place is these days.” After all, the nights that she had spent walking along the lakeside with him were many years ago.

She resisted the urge to drive to her favorite coffee shop, afraid that not only would the staff be concerned when they saw her red, swollen eyes, but because she did not want to encounter anyone else who would recognize her.

Rather, she drove out of the parking lot to a part of town where she was not likely to see anyone who knew her — and another place she had not visited in many years: The same quiet little coffee shop that had been their destination on so many nights as they drove out of that parking lot together. They had spent hours and hours there, talking and laughing, sharing their dreams for the future.

“Might as well give myself the benefit of the whole experience,” she thought to herself sardonically, as she again forged the route she had scrupulously avoided traveling for so many years.

How long had she been sitting on the bench overlooking the lake, crying in a way that she had, quite literally, never cried before? When she finally began to compose herself, it was dark.

“Dammit,” she muttered, as she searched her bag for a tissue. She could feel her eyelids swelling and her head was beginning to throb.

She looked out at the lake, bathed in moonlight now, and remembered the last time she sat on this very bench with him.

The ringing telephone startled her. She had been so deep in thought, remembering that night all those years ago when she first began writing about her life, that it took her a few moments to become acclimated. When she looked down at the blank notepad, she again felt the full weight of Dr. Nolan’s assignment.

“Take a message,” she muttered as she heard her own voice emanating from the answering machine in the next room. “I’m busy.”

She got up from the kitchen table and walked over to the sink where she poured her now-cold coffee down the drain.

“Maybe taking a walk will help,” she thought, striding toward the closet for her coat and an umbrella in case the weather report calling for late afternoon rain proved accurate.

As she got into her car and backed it out of the garage, with the notepad tucked into her bag, she knew where she was headed, but resisted consciously contemplating her destination until she arrived there. Turning up the radio, she drove dispassionately, yet purposefully. She knew this was a trip she had been destined to make, but had put off making, for many years.

“This is ridiculous,” she thought to herself as she stared at the blank piece of paper in front of her. “I should just compose this using the computer.” She thought about sitting down in front of the keyboard as she gazed at the stationery she had selected that morning.

“I could compose the letter using the computer and, after I perfect it, copy it to the page in longhand,” she said to herself. “Dr. Nolan would never know.” With that, she pulled out a pad of ordinary lined paper from her desk and picked up the pen to begin writing.

She stopped just before the ink began to flow onto the page.

She would know that she had not completed the exercise in the manner Dr. Nolan advised. And that would be a problem. As silly and pointless as she tried to tell herself the assignment was, she could never lie to Dr. Nolan about how she completed it. Deep within herself she acknowledged its inherent value and understood precisely why Dr. Nolan had insisted that part of the exercise be the experience of actually sitting down with pen and paper to write about her feelings.

As she continued staring at the notepad, she was transported back to a simpler time when her life lay before her and she willingly spent countless hours engaging in just such an exercise. Relished it, in fact, as so many young women do.

fountain-pen.png“Write him a letter. Tell him how you feel,” Dr. Nolan said during one of their weekly sessions. “You don’t have to mail it. We’ll deal with whether or not you should do that at a later date. Your assignment this week is simply to write.”

“I don’t know if I can do that,” she declared matter-of-factly.

“You might need to work at it gradually. It may be too difficult for you to write everything you need to say in one sitting. You may have to write it all down over the course of the week. And, frankly, you may not be finished by the time we next meet. This may be an ongoing process for a period of time. But this week I want you to get started. Next week we’ll assess your progress.”

“Why are you asking me to do this?” she asked pointedly.