Philip Chard

“Don't tell me what you think is wrong with me or how you believe I got this way. Don't try to analyze me and lay my life out like some chronology of cause-and-effect,” Peter insisted at our initial counseling session. “OK, I won't. What's your beef?” I asked. “Whenever I talk to people about what I'm going through emotionally, they begin interpreting my experience. They act like they're experts on my life,” he complained.

Occasionally, I take stock of the face that stares back from my mirror. Most of us do on a frequent basis. When it comes to my mug, much has changed over the years. Wrinkles are etched deeper and expand like dendrites. The hair, while still present, has thinned, grayed a bit and retreats from my forehead. The chin, although not doubled, wants to migrate south. The eyes, while still clear, no longer twinkle. “A slowly dying organism,” is how one friend referenced aging.

Alice sat next to her husband in my office. Her face was cold and unfeeling, like a stern statue set in fine but unyielding stone. Hubby appeared more like her attorney than spouse. “It was my idea that we come to see you,” he began formally. “Alice seems depressed and checked out, but she doesn’t want to talk about it. I suggested you, and she agreed.” While hubby delivered a long, technical-sounding discourse on his wife's melancholy mood, Alice remained silent.