It’s wrapped around me, so close to my skin that it’s become my outer layer. It’s with me everyday and I’m told by the people with clipboards and glasses and white coats that I’m not supposed to take it off. Mine kind of looks like theirs, except theirs lets them scratch their chin, make little notes, open doors. I sit with mine, I’ve made my peace with mine, but I wonder if they’re grateful for the breeze they feel, the buttons they can adjust, the way it looks hung up on a hook after a long day.
Mine sweats with me, breathes with me, screams with me. It shakes when I shake, shivers when I shiver, lies motionless when I lie motionless. I guess that’s the thing about mine: it knows me better than theirs know them.