Eight Months

I'm standing in the hallway

where I used to stand every Tuesday at 2 p.m.,

and I don't remember what it smells like.

That's the first thing that hits me—

not the fluorescent lights, humming the same hum,

not the beige walls, still beige,

but the fact that I can't recall

the smell.

There was a smell.

I know there was.

Something clinical, yes,

but also something else,

something specific to this place,

to the afternoons I spent here,

to the chair I sat in

before they called my name.

What color was the chair?

I stand in the waiting room

and try to remember.

Gray? Blue?

How did I not pay attention?

How did I sit there week after week

and not commit the details to memory,

like I was supposed to,

like the place deserved?

The door to the back still has the nameplate—

Dr. Harrison—

but I can't remember her first name.

I saw her every week.

I told her things.

And I can't remember her first name.

The hallway stretches the way it always did,

the lights hum the way they always did,

but something in me has left it behind,

has let it go,

and coming back feels like a betrayal,

like I'm a stranger here,

like I never sat in that waiting room at all,

or if I did,

it was someone else,

someone who paid attention,

someone who stayed.