I am so many things.

I am the love stitched into my grandmother’s quilts.
I am the simplicity and sincerity of a sixth-grade education with the polish and poise of “more.”

I am the product of someone else’s work toward a better life that died before it was born.
I am the fruit of sharecropping and dropping out of school and hitch hiking and working hard and of finding faith.

I am the rustic beauty of a thick homemade pie crust, sticky filling oozing out the sides and coloring its imperfect perfection and I am the practicality cooked into the pinto beans and cornbread that will feed those at my table. 
I am water and I am wine.

I am the laughter bubbling from the throats of my children, an overflow of humor gurgling all the way down in their bellies.
I am the abandon of being lost in play.
I am the tears of those hurt by careless words and thoughtless actions.
I am the joy of a morning sunrise and the sadness of a thousand losses.
I am full and I am hollow.

I am the distraction that prevents the finish and I am the focus that makes it happen.

I am my successes, my achievements, the certificates on the wall and the awards long ago stuffed in boxes.  And I am the performer with no audience when those glories are gone, gifting my soliloquy to an empty theater.

I am everything I was meant to be.
And yet I still don’t know who I am.

I am the dress that’s just right for the occasion.
I am the jewelry that complements perfectly and also brings out  my eyes.
I am the lipstick that changes my face.
I am the decorative little purse that carries the essentials.

I am everything I should be.
And you still don’t know me.

One day.  Some day. I’ll know what I really am.