Depending on when you met me, I might have been:
dressed in a simba sweatshirt, reading Little Women in a hammock on my front porch
wearing coke-bottle glasses and blowing the puffs off dandelions in my backyard
swishing the skirt of a plaid catholic school uniform, pulling up my drooping knee-high socks
sporting a Ravens jersey on Sundays before the games
a state public speaking contest winner who wouldn't dare speak up for herself at school
an aspiring journalist, asking tough questions for her next article
a lovestruck girlfriend, leaving notes in a locker
a songwriter, alone in my bedroom with my guitar and a notebook
running for student council with handwritten signs on hot pink poster-board
walking hereford heifers by frayed rope halters for hours before dark
clutching a mic and singing at fire halls, nursing homes, and county fairs
spinning the wheels of a peloton bike to the rhythm of a pop song
on stage as Maria, Anne, or Dorothy, taking final bows at curtain call
in the ring at the national western stock show, keeping track of placings for official records
in the mosh pit at a punk rock concert, screaming all the lyrics
behind a keyboard, writing a blog, book review, or NaNoWriMo project
leaning against the wall at a party, waiting to be asked to dance
squinting at a computer screen writing a late night research paper
reaching for the top corners of a smartboard, trying to calibrate
sitting on the floor of a classroom for a reading conference
a daughter, friend, wife, teacher, trying her best.