Therapy

I swear there’s a body in the lake. Bobbing. Somewhere. I’ve gone to the pier once a week every week for years, trying to find it again. I bring out binoculars. Some days I find trash to clean up–a tire, a journal, a box. No body bobbing. But I saw one, once, when I was alone, not really alone, but alone with the body, so an alone of sorts, depending on how you look at it. I called out to it and it didn’t say its name back. We sat. I sat. He bobbed. Buoy boy. I told him everything I’d learned. I said I would return for him but didn’t give him a time. So I come back all the time. The lake is full of journals. None of them have his handwriting, but they tell me different stories. The box had an extra set of sheets. I don’t think there’s a car down there, so I can’t explain the tire. I brought a fishing rod once, but I could only catch pens. I threw them back because I hate to see them out of ink. I can’t imagine a car made it in there–but how beautiful it would be to see him drive. Maybe there’s always been a car down there. There’s no explanation for the tire otherwise.