Henry, Kabir, and That Little Book
Page 2

But his thoughts stole away to an old writing mentor, a deceased eighth-grade teacher who told Henry that a healthy back and forth in prose—like a good volley in tennis—is essential to making tales more palatable. The teacher recommended using juxtaposition, and liberal doses of the unusual and ordinary to offer balance.
“One additionally has a duty to lift readers,” he informed Henry. “Give them hints of redemption, along with illumination, and make the tale universal, if at all possible.”
Henry tried to appreciate the decency of the other patients as he listened to one cherubic green-and-blue-haired African-American gentleman in an iridescent housecoat and Garfield slippers beautifully croon Ave Maria in the cafeteria, before a nurse told him to knock it the hell off. Which somehow made Henry recall his retired minister Mom sending a keepsake to a famous psychiatric clinic in the Midwest while Henry was stationed there in the mid-nineties. It was a refrigerator magnet of a lone white church steeple in a forest with a quote from Isaiah, 9:2:
“The people who walked in darkness 
have seen a great light.”
How Henry had wept over that gift, sobbed like a little boy. Back on the unit in New Haven, Henry joined others in the Day Room with its squishy yet impenetrable furniture that had a coating like algae, which glowed green under the harsh lights. Judge Judy was dispensing her truth to a group of seven patients from an enormous TV propped high on the wall, which was protected from shattering with a Plexi-glass cover.
“Judge Judy rakes in the dough,” Ben explained, a fifty-eight-year-old depressive who overdosed after finding his daughter dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.
“What do you think Judge Judy’s secret is?” Henry asked him.
“Judy insults well,” Ben said. “Belittles folks terrifically.”
“Right,” Henry said. “Anything else?”
“Her rapier wit slays all,” Ben went on, scowling. “Plus, her loyal viewers are like conversational cannibals—they dig discomfort, verbal take downs, and shame.”
In group later that week, Ben wept about what he discovered in his basement ninety days ago - his daughter sprawled by her drum set, blood pooling around her head.
“My wry, sweet, and favorite percussionist in all the world,” Ben whispered. “Do you understand how rare it is for a female teenager to shoot herself with a shotgun?”
The doctor from Prague shook her head.
“Does anyone get how rare that is?” Ben asked, looking around at us. “Can someone answer me now, please?”
“Others in the group don’t know how to respond,” the doctor said.  “Which doesn’t take away from how sorry we all are for what has befallen you, Ben.”
“Yes,” each of us said, coughing, blushing. “Of course, yeah, so terribly sorry for your heinous loss at this tragic and hellish time, Ben.”
Over Henry’s hospitalization, the green-and-blue-haired performer in Garfield slippers sang more outlawed, though tender renditions of Ave Maria as Henry made steady progress reading an article in a writing magazine called, “Magic and the Intellect.” The gist was that every narrative has such possibility, numerous magical avenues, though Henry knew he could be way off with that summation—his inner gyroscope had been failing him as of late.
After four days on the unit, Henry started back in with journal writing—a comely recreational therapist on the unit had suggested it to him.