The First Day You Were in the Psychiatric Hospital Leah Browning
We visited twice, once in the afternoon and once in the evening. The second time, he took a miniature carton of H채agen-Dazs ice cream (mint chocolate chip, your favorite) and two plastic spoons. I took a pair of brightly colored socks with suns and moons and blue and purple cats and a shower of sparkling golden stars. You had lost so much weight that your skin, that day, was almost translucent. I can still remember how small and fragile your fingers looked as he handed you a spoon. But before we were allowed to go upstairs to see you, we had to stop again at the security desk. Your name was written in pen on a line in their book. Already, you had been given a number. I removed the keys and coins from my pockets, prepared this time for the sudden intimacy of the wand, brushing my outstretched arms and the lengths of the backs of my legs.