The psychiatrist asks, of my father,
“Are you happy?” … trying to assess
his mental state. “You’re not depressed?
You’ve had a stroke, and I know that after
that there would be adjustments. Have you felt
a sorrow at no longer being able to do
the things you did?” Dad stares, a puzzled furrow…
“Are you sad, Keith?” says Mum, trying to help,
gently rubbing her hand on his bruised arm.
The psychiatrist persists: “Do you feel you’ve done
all that you wanted? When you look back on
life, there’s nothing of which you’re ashamed?”
Silence drifts softly as a curled feather,
Settles like stone between myself and my mother.
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