On the examination table, I squirm on squeaky paper, surrounded by steel implements that could hurt. Prepare, once again, to fail the clock test. What am I so afraid of. Time? The question I'm always unprepared for?— Have you felt sad at any time in the last few weeks? A speech bubble appears over my head—no; the thinking cloud—who hasn't? Last night I dreamed he stood at the bottom of a cement stairwell, a sentry in shadows. Finally, after 4 decades, I told him —I'm sorry. Really, truly sorry. He died so many years before I was ready to apologize. My deceptions still trapped on the steps between us. In the morning, Dickinson—Somehow myself survived the Night / And entered with the Day—Emily, in her tiny room. I, still trapped inside that dream. The doctor & I enclosed together. These confessionals. Have you felt sad.