The Night Ms. Reardon decided she was done with therapy for a while...

I'd deluded myself into forgetting that saying about Irish Catholics being immune to psychotherapy.

I remember it now.

With a wry twist of the lips, I remember it now.

When I think about a garden hose in the exhaust, I remember the saying.

When I stay until I'm the last living person in the building, and realize that staying all night will not buy me anything but more disappointment--I remember the saying.

When, tomorrow, I cancel my weekly appointments, I'll be thinking of the saying. 

With a wry twist of my lips, I'll be thinking of that saying.

And whenever it is that I commit myself to the inevitable course of action, The one that sings a siren song too sweet to close my heart against--

When that day or evening or small hour of the pre-dawn comes?

I'll remember what they say about the Irish and psychotherapy.

I'll remember the truth beneath the jest--

With a wry twist in my smile.