Adam and Eve

Therapeutic Misadventures

And so I sit to write. It was a Monday like all the rest. I dig back through my memory bank of the last 12 hours and search for the one moment that signifies how it was different and what I learned, or felt, or smiled about. The smiling moments are the ones I want to capture and hold in my glass jar. The jar I will open on New Year’s Eve.

He reached up to pat my hand as I rested it on his shoulder. His bones clad in the rough wool of a plaid shirt. His hand was like warm bath water, his gnarled fingers wrapped around, enveloping mine and he smiled. “Oh, your hands are so cold. Did you walk all the way from your home to here?” the depth of his accent told me he and his wife had been conversing in their romantic mix of languages and…

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