The Right Questions
what are you?
Dr. Angelo came to me in the throes of despair. My mind was a clouded mess of indecision and regret. He assured me that he had seen worse. I wasn’t sick. I just wasn’t asking the right questions.
What he suggested was a retreat, some time away to dissociate and understand the gravity of my problems. His office was located within a concrete metropolitan boondocks, an industrial forest of buildings long abandoned as scrapyards of metal and glass. Here would be my ashram, and the healing could begin.
What are you without your thoughts?
I was left to ponder the question for a multitude of days. High above the intersecting sidewalks and roadways, he locked me in a barren room in which I could not escape. I was to sit in absolute silence. He placed a faded Polaroid in my hand - a snapshot of an elderly woman strapped to a wheelchair. Drool trickled down her cheek.
When he came back, I scampered over to him like a wild animal. He sat and listened to me with a mild smile. He nodded. Took notes. But in the end, nothing I told him was deemed a suitable response. I scarfed down the meal he provided and enjoyed his company before he pulled another out of his pocket.
The photo showcased the side profile of a man with a finely tailored suit. A polished wristwatch poked out from the mitered cuff.
What are you without your possessions?
The doctor locked the door behind him. I sat along the cold, cracked tile searching for more answers.
What are you without your accomplishments?
What are you without your words?
Over the coming days, he would appear more frequently - sometimes once in the morning and again in the wee hours of the night. Sometimes I would wake up to a photo placed upon my chest, the question scratched in ink.
What are you without your loved ones?
What are you without your vessel?
Always a new person, up close and natural. Sometimes the people weren’t fully in the frame, the background a blur of color.
I couldn’t tell if this was progress. Each time he came to listen, and each time he would turn his head back and forth in rejection. I was beginning to lose hope.
The last photo was the only picture that I recognized. It was a photo of my mother, a cigarette to her lips, the corded phone to her ear. I was just a baby crawling in the background.
What are you?
I lost track of the days as I battled with the gnawing grip of hunger. This time, I didn’t think he was coming back. My eyes darted to the window up above. The ledge was not wide enough to support my feet.
Thankfully, he returned, the sound of something heavy being dragged along in the shadows.
Well, do you have an answer?
I spouted a long-winded, dissection of myself - all of my faults, my grievances.
He held his hand in the air for silence.
The fact you have no recognition is telling in itself.
He gathered all of the scattered pictures into a pile and placed them in his pocket.
A stack of new photographs was presented. He handed me my bag of tools–hammers, screwdrivers.
C’mon.
I thought I caught a smile, his visage phasing in and out of the shadows.
If nothing, you are useful.