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First we add the finger paints

And the scraps of paper laden with dragons--

Scaly,

Green,

And lopsided.

Each scribble represents the labors of my tiny hands--

Driven by an imagination spanning the universe--

Directed by feeble attempts to communicate

The dreams and aspirations

Of a five year-old.

Then we add the cleats and jerseys,

The cargo khaki camo shorts

With pockets for toads and pens and paper and bubble gum.

With these items come the years of sorting through identities--

Trying on new ones before tossing them out for the

Latest

And

Greatest

Trend that suited the agenda of my middle school mind

As I tried to pilot my way through puberty

And muster enough courage to like the girl I saw every morning

When I looked in the mirror.

Next come the plastic cards

Stamped with my name--

All bearing my picture--

Giving me freedom

In the form of licenses and credit cards and school IDs.

These objects are smaller than my preschool portraits

Or preteen wardrobe,

But they bear the weight of the years I spent

Learning what to make of words like

Potential.

And they are pocket-sized testaments of

My adventures maneuvering vehicles and navigating

High school.

But now

It is time to add life-long friendships and metro cards,

Marked up textbooks and apartments keys,

Transcripts and heartaches.

These are the things that remind me I am not the little girl

With crayons between her thumb

And her forefinger.

And these are the things that show me I have outgrown

Prom dresses and sweet sixteens.

And when the stuff of which my past is made

Is tallied,

It equals the sum total

Of twenty-one years.

It equals

A life.

Jerseys and puberty,

Crayons and all.