Elizabeth was suffering. Father had insisted
she see our GP. It was like all the words were
stifled in Elizabeth’s throat. She was mute, gloomy.
She lingered in bed until late afternoon, then came
and sat silently in the lounge, in her unlaundered
pyjamas, wrapped in a dreary blanket. The doctor
diagnosed clinical depression. This was serious.
He prescribed anti-depressants and rest. I couldn’t
extract a sentence from Elizabeth. Father gently
encouraged her to take her medicine. I couldn’t
see them helping. It was horrible to witness
Elizabeth’s bubbly spirit slayed like this. Worst
of all, nothing I did, could comfort her.


Author: Robert James Berry

Poet & Novelist