I haven’t called or seen my therapist
in months and I wonder if she worries,
or wonders about me
as often as she crosses my mind.
I found her card while I was spring cleaning
which made me laugh and then wince
because this is what therapy feels like;
cleaning out closets and emptying old shoe boxes,
turning the pockets of your favourite jacket
inside out to find a pittance of dust and fluff.
And as always, I see her name
and think of a question
but never an answer, at least never the answer
I am meant to hear: that her kindness
didn’t make me special and missing people
is probably just a professional hazard.
Photograph & poem: © Kristiana Reed 2019