“It means somebody loves you,” he said seriously. “And they’re listening.”
I had to turn away and pretend to fix the coffee urn.
In March, a woman I’d never met pulled me aside after a session.
She was in her seventies, with a cane and very careful hair.
“My nephew wanted me to sign something last week,” she said quietly. “I told him I needed to ask my pastor. I didn’t know why. But I remembered what your mother said, about the thing under the words.”
Her eyes were wet.
“I haven’t signed anything. I just wanted to say thank you.”
I told her to go home and call Hank.
I told her she’d done exactly right.
The first warm Sunday of spring, after everyone had gone, I found my mother in the empty gym, folding chairs.
“You’re not supposed to lift those.”
“Dr. Patel said no more than twenty pounds.”
