Scott D. Miller

“I don’t think she will.”

“I’m not sure how …,” the man in front of me mumbled.

“Do we really have to wait 30 minutes?” my brother Marc and I whined in unison.

“Can we have grilled cheese and tomato soup?” I asked, a hopeful smile glued to my face.

“So …,” I asked, “I’m wondering, would you like to schedule another appointment?”

Psychotherapy

“That’ll be one dollar and forty-five cents” the tall, older man said.

After tethering our canoe to the ‘nearest cleat, Tom and I walked across the wooden walkway bridging the gap between the dock and navy-grey store.

It’s not that we weren’t allowed.

“These are the last of the season,” she said, spooning all the plump, bright red raspberries into my bowl.

“Ask them if they’re interested in a game,” my dad said, pointing in the direction of the pool table.

So much has changed over the years – easily visible in recordings of my clinical work spanning the last four decades.

Four decades ago, I was a graduate student, plodding through my few remaining classes and gathering dissertation data while surviving on a combination of student loans and money earned from a university assistantship.

Certain memories have a kind of stickiness, frequently coming to mind, evoking familiar feelings, and easily connecting to other life experiences.

At six and a half feet in height, and 250 pounds, Gerrard was an imposing figure.

The evening news always had a segment about the war – at times longer, others shorter, but always with a report comparing the deaths of enemy combatants to American soldiers.

America

Despite her imposing size and booming voice, it was always a good day when Mrs.

From the oversized bag resting on my office floor, she produced a VHS video cassette.

“Dear Scott,” he began (this was when “you’ve got mail” meant paper, pen, and postage).

“Wanna play blocks?” my brother Marc asked.