A poem about who we are, and what we own of our pain and ourselves.

It is strange, being in the routine I’ve had for years after some time away. The trees are starting to explode into color, a marked shift from the steaming heat the last time I was seeing patients. My tiny car is parked outside, and I watch it from my office window, its color starting to match the emerging fall palette behind it. It’s the same car I’ve had for 8 years, one of the few things that hasn’t changed. I run to the restroom and look in the mirror. My hair is crazy,