Group Therapy   We gather each day in this circle, I know everyone’s slippers by heart. The liturgy of tartan, fluffy and sheepskin, begins with confession, a suitcase of letters and cards she never opened, the child she abandoned, his lost dream of seeing elephants in Africa. They offer losses like chocolates. I suck on the hard centre of her accident, swallow it whole, wanting to cry a tsunami of tears to wash it away.   I don’t, but he does, weeps like the child they never wanted, utters his unspeakable nickname, how his stomach was broken by boots, word,…