The discomfort of sitting in a room all but silent, save for the depressing “huh-huh-huh”s of a defeated septuagenarian huddled under her sweater is rivaled only by the uncertainty of my thoughts at this exact moment. I can’t look at her, because she’s given up. I can’t look at her, because, as a woman of God, she’s damned his name. But what did I do to deserve this, she asks on repeat, interrupted by hiccups from her marathon crying. A glimmer catches my eye as the overhead light tangles through a prism in the mucus dripping from her nose. Her reaction follows in a way so echoing of her state of mind - the drip lands on her lap before she even thinks of moving to stem its origin, mechanically, automated, slow. But what did I do to deserve this? Her eyes are glazed, she can’t look at me either; she shades them from the painful questions mine beg to ask. So I look forward. I look through the lace curtain, into the garden, through the fringes of two small pomegranate trees at the red-stained fence. A lonesome serviette overhangs the free-standing table that I rest my bare feet on. They tangle too, manifesting only a fraction of what I’m feeling, so I pull them in tight and grab at my toes with my hands.  She still won’t look at me; you can’t give up, you never give up. But Christ, I’ve never seen her like this. And, worst of all, right now, I feel nothing. Complete and total emotional numbness. I don’t even want to lay a hand on her knee. 

She motions for my attention. Direct, intent, pale blue eyes with pinpoint pupils - tired of watching tears slip by - she starts. 

“At the mental health clinic, they asked me. The doctor, he asked me, ‘What is the most important thing in your life?’ I said you are.”

I know the precise fraction of a second passing when emotion hit me. I didn’t tear up. I instantly sobbed.