“Wait, wait, hold up,” my therapist said.
“Could you repeat that?”
I did.
He responded slowly.
“We’ve been together for how many years,
and this hasn’t come up before?”
“Who my parents fuck
isn’t something I consider very much at all.
Who other people fuck
is not in very good taste
to discuss.
When I was robbed in fifth grade
I found it racist to mention
it was by a black kid
which made it much harder
to find him -”

“Do you think,”
my therapist said,
“we could consider your father’s homosexuality
for at least a moment
– if only to humor me?”

We did.

We talked
about his hidden life
and hidden years
and my avoidance of it
and how his time of secrets
may have impacted on his behavior with family
and how I felt treated monstrously
and maybe it wasn’t half so much my fault
as I’d been led to believe
by my own crippled psyche
for the previous two score plus years
and maybe some growth was available
at last?

The session proved fruitful
according to my therapist.