Something wasn’t running on time. I imagined that my mind worked that way. The bus that would take me back to my neighborhood was running late. Another February early evening reminded me that I would probably be standing here, waiting for a bus, a year from now. This kind of therapeutic work took time. Once again, psychotherapy had become an important part of my life. Years ago, with my first therapist, when this kind of work was new to me, sessions sometimes felt like matters of life and death. These three words, life and death, felt threatening somehow. Perhaps what happened in her office today felt like life and death. She was a psychoanalyst, and her silences often reminded me that my words were full of unconscious meaning. Perhaps today, when I was silent for seconds that felt like minutes, the session felt like a life and death matter. Silence might’ve meant that my mind wasn’t working. I imagined that in those moments of silence, Sarah became more than a presence in the room, more than another human being with whom I shared physical and mental space. She became my mind. This last sentence felt like life and death. The bus appeared in the distance. I almost wrote: the missing bus. It would reach this stop in a minute or so. My mind seemed to be working again. I imagined rereading these sentences that had written themselves in my mind while I stood waiting for the bus. I didn’t feel as if I were missing. Sessions helped me find myself, sometimes for moments at a time.