Monks Talk
in a therapist’s office — part 2
(part 1 here)
The next week when the girl returned to the therapist’s office, she found the younger monk back in his place on the table. She picked up the statue and ran her fingers over the crack, now sealed with glue.
“He’s all back together,” she said.
“Yes,” said the therapist, “I glued him.”
“He wants to tell you something,” said the girl.
“What does he want to say?”
The girl walked over to the therapist. She held the monk up to the therapist’s ear and whispered, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” said the therapist, smiling at the girl. “I mean, he’s welcome.”
“He wants to say something else,” said the girl.
“What’s that?”
“I love you!” she whispered, holding the monk up to the therapist’s ear. She moved the monk over to the therapist’s cheek and made a loud kissing sound.
“Do you think he’s happy with the way I glued him?”
“Yes,” said the girl, “he really likes you now.” The girl went to the end table and held the young monk in front of the old monk. “Hi,” she said, “I’m home.” She put the young monk back on the table.
“What’s a monk?” she asked the therapist.
“A monk is a man who doesn’t have a family. He lives with other monks, or sometimes all alone.”
“Why?” asked the girl. “Why does he do that?”
“Well,” said the therapist, “maybe he likes to be quiet. Maybe he doesn’t want to talk very much. Maybe he likes to just think his own thoughts and not tell anyone.”
“Can girls be monks?” the girl asked.
“Yes, but a girl monk is called a nun.”
“Maybe I’ll be a nun when I grow up,” said the girl. “I like to be quiet sometimes. But then I would miss you.”
“You would?”
“Yes,” said the girl. “If I was a nun and I got broken would you take me home in your purse?”
“No,” said the therapist. “You’re not made of stone, so I couldn’t glue you, could I?”
“I’m not broken,” said the girl, “look!” She pulled up her shirt, exposing her tummy.
“I see,” said the therapist.
“Do you sleep here at night?” asked the girl.
“No,” said the therapist, “I go home to sleep.”
“Where is your house?” asked the girl.
“You’re curious about my house?”
“I wish I could see it,” said the girl.
“We could pretend that this office is my house,” said the therapist.
“Ok!” said the girl, bouncing on the couch.
“What would you like to do at my house today?”
“I want to sleep here,” said the girl. “Do you have any covers?”
The therapist opened the office door and went out into the hallway. She came back with a crocheted red afghan. The girl was lying on her stomach, her face turned towards the back of the couch. The therapist covered her with the blanket.
“Now what?” asked the therapist.
“Shhh,” said the girl. “Now you watch me sleep. Make sure no one comes in the room.”
“You think someone might come in?” whispered the therapist.
“Yes,” whispered the girl, “but don’t let them.”
“Ok, I won’t,” whispered the therapist.
After a minute the girl jumped up again. She went over to the end table and brought the mended young monk back to the couch with her. “What is her real house like?” she asked him.
“He says your house is nice. He says your children are happy there. Do you really have children?”
“Yes,” said the therapist, “but they don’t live at my house any more. They are all grown up.”
“This office isn’t your house. We’re just pretending. I wish I could live at your real house, in one of the empty bedrooms your children used to have. Monk, don’t you wish you could stay at her house forever?”
The girl kept her eyes on him.
“He says no. He says he belongs here with the old monk. He says I belong at my house with Aunt Gracie. He says Aunt Gracie would miss me too much if I came to live with you.”
“He’s pretty smart, that monk,” said the therapist.
“Yeah,” said the girl. “Maybe he learned his lesson when he tried to run away.”
“Entering the forest he moves not the grass;
Entering the water he makes not a ripple.”
— Zenrin Kushû
