Saturday he picked me up at ten.
No agenda offered. Just: I'm outside when you're ready. Which meant he was already there when I came down, engine off, drinking coffee from the same paper cup he always had on Saturday mornings. He handed me one through the window before I got in.
Oat milk, one sugar.
I got in.
"Where are we going," I said.
"Not sure yet." He pulled out. "How do you feel about walking?"
"Fine."
"Then we're walking."
We ended up in Inman Park, which had the specific quality of a neighbourhood that had been through several versions of itself and arrived at something good. Old houses, the kind with history in their proportions. Trees that had been there long enough to own the pavement.
We walked.
The therapy session was still in me not loudly, not urgently. More like
