Rx: for the one who finally turns around
The Man in the Chair
A grown man
sits across from me.
Weeping.
Trembling.
Shaking,
like the ground beneath him
finally gave permission.
I watch his body
turn toward the thing
that has been chasing him
for years;
and today,
for the first time,
he stops running.
From his seat
the weight of it all
comes down.
Not to crush him;
but to be felt.
His marriage.
His children.
His ability to be a brother.
A son.
All of it
landing at once.
And then;
the relief.
The kind that only comes
after you have walked
all the way through
the dark.
He has seen his own shadows now.
The tendencies he no longer wants
to carry forward.
The parts he inherited
that were never his to keep.
He is not a reflection of his father.
He is the gentleness of his mother;
the gentleness he lost somewhere
along the way.
Creating a photograph that doesn’t exist,
but feels tangible.
His mother;
happy and in her element.
Peaceful;
in a way he forgot she could be.
Tears of joy now
streaking down his face
instead of the other kind.
Dosage: Read when you believe the thing behind you is bigger than the thing ahead of you. Repeat until you remember: you are allowed to turn around.
Refills: Unlimited. There is more gentleness to find.
Prescribed by: Lexi Eller, LCSW-S · Ember & Lighthouse