breath

 The family walks to the psychologist, the child and youth psychologist for the son. The son had been suffering from his compulsions, and maybe the psychologist can help. There is tension on the way, the wife had been in charge of all this because of the work in the university taking the husbands time. Now all three are on their way. The wife rushes ahead pushing her bicycle, the son is on the street riding his. 

Walk, as every day, and this is another kilometre for the tally.

The practice is in a startlingly whitewashed building, there are no directions anywhere. The son rushes ahead, and - just like that (-) - lose sight of him. Now wonder if it should be upstairs or downstairs. Go upstairs, such practices are seldom in cellars. Three stories farther up there is a door with a sign on it, and that is the way in. Knock on the door and go in. There is an explanation "Ah, there is the Papa" This is rubbish, the son always uses first names to refer to anyone, including his father. There is the usual thing of waiting rooms and so forth, and then there is space with the psychologist.

She is a small, dark haired woman who is really most professional. She explains the results of the tests, it all seems to have gone rather well.

After all that climbing of stairs, there is no shortage of breath.

The daily exercise has been of some use after all.

Everything is in some kind of order now.

The son seems happier, now that a few things have been spoken of.