75

When the first days of spring begin to ward off the cold of February, and greets us with a rainy March, I find myself in my Psychiatrist's room.

My tears flow hot and suffocating, tracing a salty trail on my cheeks. I look up at the doctor in front of me, sitting in a comfortable brown leather armchair, whose attention lasts in every little wrinkle that writhes on my face taken by perpetual sadness. She has a soft, complacent countenance, although we both know that if I wasn't paying for her to listen to my problems, we wouldn't be facing each other for the time I didn't do more than talk about what, most of the time, I prefer to forget, and cry.

"Use these" she says, pushing a box of clean handkerchiefs through the square low table between us. In the right corner, a vase ornamented with floral designs houses a small withered daisy, and its whitish and droopy petals caress my fingers when I stretch to pick up the container. "Don't worry about letting your feelings free up, Suzy. Don't