What Comes Back

What Comes Back

You can tell a lot about a life

by what keeps returning to it.

In my line of work,

it is rarely money.

Usually it is sorrow with a fresh haircut,

panic in a nicer blouse,

or a memory that has been loitering out the back

waiting for just the right moment to stroll in

like it owns the place.

And, to be fair,

some of them do.

The therapy room knows about returns.

The kettle returns to its little hiss and rattle.

The chairs return to their corners.

The Arnott’s biscuit tin with the parrot on the front

returns to the table like royalty,

bright as ever,

holding together people who feel they are coming apart.

Then there is the elephant.

Not everybody sees him.

Only the ones with a tender sort of seeing,

the ones who have been cracked open by life

and learned to call it insight.

He appears without fuss,

great and steady,

as if to remind us that some things do not leave

just because we stopped speaking about them.

The chickens return too, naturally,

parading past the window

with the self importance of minor officials.

One peers in as though she has concerns about boundaries.

Another looks as though she has buried three husbands

and would like a word about resilience.

And still, what comes back is not quite the same.

That is the trick of it.

A grief returns,

but you are different.

A joy returns,

but now you know to hold it gently.

An old fear taps at the door,

and this time you do not hide under the table.

You put the kettle on.

That is what changes things.

Not stopping the return,

because good luck with that.

But meeting it differently.

With steadier hands.

With better tea.

With a biscuit, if needed.

With the elephant in the corner,

the chickens on patrol,

and the quiet understanding

that some things come back

not to break us,

but to see whether we have learned

how to welcome them

without handing them the whole house.