My Psychiatrist is Two Minutes Late

Stephanie Gaitán

photo credit: Stephanie Gaitán

The psychiatrist was supposed to call me at six. Critters crawl between gray matter, they’ve nearly made it to the surface again. 6:02. No call.

I watch the 1 train pull into the station, beyond a shut window, beyond dancing leaves. The tree went from bare to budding in a few weeks, a reminder that Earth will continue to rotate without us.

A dog is yapping, birds are chirping non-stop—the train leaves a rumbling behind. I think my sister’s watching that show about hot people who live on an island and try to win the fuckbuddy of their dreams. I can hear the tv’s mutterings. My primo hermano yelps. I laugh. If looks were enough to assess relationship viability, there wouldn’t be as many broken hearts.

The sadness comes now. I hadn’t allowed it to seep through in some time. It rises up through my pores like hot gas. I almost cry. I’ve gotten good at holding it back. I don’t think this is something to be proud of.

Four a.m. Mami’s screaming startles me awake. I get up, disoriented, and make my way to her room. They’re arguing again. She wants him gone. I intervene. A cycle that runs on toxicity will always taint everything in its environment. I lock my bedroom door each night, a wish for safety.

Psychiatrist still hasn’t called me. Maybe my therapist got the appointment time wrong. A weeping angel covers its face.

Stephanie Gaitán is a poet and fiction writer. She believes in direct action through community efforts. Her past-times include uplifting indie artists and time-traveling to the 90s and early 2000s with her daughter, via childhood touchstones. Her work has most recently been featured in InQluded and Palabritas. She lives in the Bronx, New York. @myeyesarebooked