I’m from a 17-hour arrival.

From a pink blanket wished by a brother to be blue.
I’m from Mozart and nightlights and “I love you to the moon and back.”

I’m from wide-eyed wonder and childish curiosity.
From swordfights and mermaids and enchanted forests.
I’m from adventure and magic and blissful naivete.

I’m from chalk-stained hands from building castles.
From bruises and scrapes, faded into scars--medals earned in proving “girls can do it too!”
I’m from Crayola and chocolate, used by Mom to temper the storm.

I’m from “sticks and stones may break my bones but words can never hurt me.”
From “weird” and “dorky.”
I’m from the bruises and scrapes that hurt less than words.

I’m from “They can only hurt you if you let them.”
From washed away castles and forgotten magic.
I’m from growing up without growing old.

I’m from the healing powers of Tolstoy and Fitzgerald.
From learning to love the scars that cut deeper than the pavement.
I’m from the therapeutic remedies of pianos and chamomile tea.

I’m from acceptance and love--a spark rekindling.
From promises and hope and a future with a shine.
I’m from the little girl with chalk-stained hands, helping me find the magic again.