This piece of memoir comes via The Red Dress Club’s
challenge this week to begin a narrative with the idea of “crossed arms.”
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I walk in and drop onto the brown leather sofa, arms crossed, knees touching
and my feet turned in.
"Hi Cathy. How
are you?" she asks as she always does.
Her opening line superficial compared with the looking, studying me for
the non-verbal answers.
"Oh I'm fine.
And how are you?" I pleasantly reply. I've got a smile on my face but I know she
doesn't believe me, and this session isn't about her.
"I'm good," she replies with a quick, all-knowing
chuckle. It's the beginning of the
dance. Her eyes are probing and I drop
my gaze. With the pleasantries behind
us, the standard inquiry is presented.
"So, really, how are you? What's going on with you?" she
asks. Such a loaded question this week.
I sit quietly, arms still crossed, head bent down looking at
the crisscross pattern, an elongated letter X my arms make being folded into
one another. And still I remain
quiet. Moments pass without a word but
there's no pressure to speak. She will
wait for me. It's too difficult to speak
and she knows.
The tears fall silently and finally I must unfold my arms to
reach for the tissues. I grab a few
and dry my eyes. I stall by continuing
to dab at them repeatedly.
"It's been a really hard week." I manage to say,
my voice hard to hold steady so it comes out barely more than a whisper.
And still she sits in silence waiting for more. She knows it will come and it does. I sink in to the sofa and begin to relax and
release a flood of emotionally full words.
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