The Right Words

Creative Writing, mental health, Psychology 1 Minute

The void left by your wife’s death was threatening to consume you. What words could’ve blunted the blades of your misery? In the restaurant of my mind, cliched waitresses sauntered in with apologetic attitudes and platters of platitudes. Certainly nothing worth ordering. Their offerings made communion wafers seem as nourishing as the corpse of Christ in the eyes of a fine young cannibal.

Why did my mind go there? “Silence of the Lambs” was on TV, and The Fine Young Cannibals were on the radio, in the background, singing “She Drives Me Crazy.” If only it were her presence, not her absence, that promised to drive you crazy. What words might’ve helped you? I could have said “I’m sorry for your loss” but that would’ve felt as inadequate as stepping from a chauffeur driven limousine to offer a homeless man a slice of stale bread.

What words could I have uttered that would’ve done more good than a handgun versus hornets? In hindsight, I wish I’d said “you’re a resilient man. I hope your agony fades to a bearable ache surprisingly soon.” Would that have helped? I’m not sure, but I believe it would’ve been better than I’m sorry for your loss, you have my sympathy, everything happens for a reason, or it must have been part of God’s plan.


© Rodney Hunter, 2023

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Published by surrealartpsychonaut

Among other things, the Surreal Art Psychonaut is a conduit to a lonely desert track lined with abandoned museums, laboratories full of aliens and aliens full of laboratories. Agar gel is their marmalade, anthrax is their herbs and spices and steel is their fiber. The Psychonaut's LIKE button is not there for decorative purposes, if you enjoy one of his poems, short stories, or articles, PRESS IT. Striking the LIKE button is as critical as sounding the alarm when the Triffids rise again. If I am displeased by a critique, I will paint the offenders lounge suite with a cocktail of rats piss and goats blood, graffiti their cat, tattoo their goldfish and reduce the tires of their pride and joy to a molten mess with some epic burnouts in the nearest police station car park. Then I will waggle my finger at them and say, you should not have said that. At this point, you may be wondering just how much we have in common. My hobbies are vampire hunting, werewolf taming and exorcising flagons of rum. Look, the spirits are all gone. I'm a unicorn whisperer by trade, and have been for the best part of eight centuries. I've spent the worst part of eight centuries having tickle fights with the alien from the Predator movie. The less said about that the better.

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