Waiting for Dr. Robbins

Absorbed with his iPAD, I’m fixated on his movements; scratching his nose, the glide of his finger over the touch screen.  My son’s shirt is exactly the same color and intensity of the indigo fish that are twitching in the micro-currents of a large coffin sized fish tank.  From somewhere in the waiting room, a wind tunnel of white noise encases me in sterile solitude.   It’s our third visit with Dr. Robbins who is leading the conspiracy to rewire his brain.  I say “our visit” as if someone else shares the brunt of responsibility, the guilt and condolences.  But it’s just me; his mother died a year ago this past January, leaving me to raise him and his sister.  We are sitting in the corner of the room with our computers; I am typing how a mother would be gently soothing him with long gentle strokes to fine textured hair.  He’s playing Mindcraft.  Our hands are busy computing with abandon… waiting for our brains to be rewired; his, by the smiling Dr. Robbin, mine, by the frowning of time.

tis nothing if not heard

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