Visiting Hour

The blue-uniformed tech pushes an oversized chair through the crowded waiting room to make an extra place for us. We sit down, my son next to me, his dad across. It’s the visiting hour. He’s been here two days. Just settling in. Last night he was weepy. No sleep and no meds. Transparent to the bone, he spoke his truth and we listened with Buddha eyes.

Tonight he’s livelier. More like himself. Even happy I think. They got ice cream sundaes today, he says. With fudge sauce and whipped cream and sprinkles.

He tells us of a character he met.  A man who calls himself “A Weapon of Mass Destruction.” We laugh at his stories of the man, not at the man. The man is interesting, his truth his own, just different from those of us who wear the civilized veneer of normalcy.

We talk of our cats, of current politics, tell funny stories to each other, while close around us others are telling theirs. It’s cozy really, almost like a party. Tonight the loony bin doesn’t seem all that loony.


About boomergirl47

Retired from the University of South Florida. Love reading, writing, hiking, nature, music, birding, puttering around the house and yard.
This entry was posted in emotions, family, human interest, love, mother, poetry, psychology, relationships, spirituality, women. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Visiting Hour

  1. A pleasure to read–well expressed, clear, not too many words, all well-chosen, just right for me to be there without the sea of background emotions 🙂 .


  2. boomergirl47 says:

    Thanks, Steve. It’s funny how the words mostly seem to choose themselves. I just tweak. Hopefully, the well will never run dry. Life seems to provide me with plenty of material! 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

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