The Boy

A client tells me he needs to process trauma
related to war time.

For three sessions we speak of otherwise-
the pains and purposes and pleasures of adult living.

At the end of the third session, at five minutes to the hour
he says so I can’t get it out of my head

there was a boy.
Knowing I have a break after this client

and could hold space today,
I offer, do you want to go there?

No.
Not today.

I do.
Given what I know of this man’s life, I imagine this boy.

He was tortured/maimed/abused/hurt/killed.
He suffered/died alone/is/was/angry/hopeless/desperate.

I am not sure what I will do or say that can soothe my client
in the same way he was not perhaps able to help this boy.

I see my client’s name on my schedule and wonder
this week if he will be ready.

There are three of us now. The boy is already here.
I prepare a nest, a grave, a cradle.