Real Good Therapy: A Personal Narrative

Mariam Sulakian

Three roses lay in a vase before us, once rich and red as life, now suffocating from white walls and colored pills. I’d come to a point in my life–my five years of life–where I could barely recognize my mother’s own voice, intoxicated with fatigue. Sometimes she would speak with tears. Sometimes her face just dimmed cold. The world had by then become a vacuum of time as I’d wait by frantic nurses two hours or maybe eight.

He had lived at home for a while, at least until he was too sick. Things were nicer when he was here. I would sit beside him and recite the poems I had learned at church the past day. He would laugh or cough in reply. Eventually the two sounded the same. Other times, I would pick petals for him. He loved the smell of roses. Now I could only see him…

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