My therapist sends an email

Her house is for sale. 

The selling price: 200K! And not only that, a fresh loaf of bread for the buyer, each day.

I get up from my computer and go.

I’ve always dreamed of owning a house

just like hers. Hers, in fact, would do just fine.

I walk the boundaries of her land, peek into windows,

see her shadowed inside. I do not knock or ring. Don’t want to be seen.

My therapist, wearing a straw sun hat, comes out the front door,

points to the men threshing on the front lawn. (How had I missed this?)

There’s a lot of land here. A lot to maintain. It’s far from my work.

It’s far from my friends. But I always wanted it. So shouldn’t I still?

“Too much work,” my therapist says … as always,  putting in words what I know but don’t know. 

She walks across the road into the fields, trips and falls.

I pretend not to see.