I am born. I’m one part dancing mother, other part unshakable father.
I’m pigtails and buck teeth; Indiana Jones on replay and purple Otter-Pop stained lips; bashful pasta art designer.
I’m you can move mountains child. I’m pixie dust daydreamer and wildflower frolicker.
I am ten. I’m homemade Christmas presents and kick-the-can champion. I’m wide-eyed ghost stories and closed-lips secrets.
I’m salt water tears when Old Yeller dies. I’m angry fists when I’m told I can’t play because I’m a girl. I’m trembling body when I realize monsters are humans.
I am 16. I’m anguished adolescent with Blink 182 as the soundtrack to my bus ride. I’m girl who reads Cosmo instead of the truth. I’m innocence lost when my first kiss was to make him like me. I’m dark nights and darker thoughts. I’m hormonal hell-raiser and absolutely not an attitude adjuster.
I am 20. I’m water in my red solo cup; I’m late night adventures and early morning pillow talk. I’m Grey’s Anatomy. I’m mascara on weekends. I’m first time in love; first time heart broken. I’m paychecks spent on coffee and TOMS shoes.
I’m questioner of all things taught. I’m tattoos of my thoughts. I’m conqueror of mountains and tamer of rivers. I’m always say yes. I’m dirt between my toes and proud wearer of perpetually sunburned cheeks. I’m the tree outside my window that dances with the storm. I’m the fury of freedom.
I am 25. I’m fresh water swimming holes and up before sunrise. I’m restless wanderer. I’m whitewater summers and starry night bonfires. I’m paleontologist lover eager to discover the stories hidden in his bones. I’m goofy smile when he thinks I’m asleep. I’m tangled messy buns and straightened teeth. I’m creator and maker. I’m innocence reborn. I’m wild.
I’m one part past, other part future.