I have my mother’s nose. And my father’s sense for returning phone calls.
My brother and I share the same smile, and the same fears that we will never be good enough.
I wear royal blue because my best friend in high school told me it makes my eyes sparkle.
My knee still creaks from a car wreck when I was 14.
I do my eyeliner the way my freshman roommate taught me–winged out, not up.
I wear makeup every day because my grandmother said I was prettier like that when I was 12.
I have a scar on my left wrist from the last time I trusted myself to ride a bike.
I still listen to my first boyfriend’s older brother’s band.
I collect rocks and shells because my father’s mother did so too.
I am an environmentalist because the town I grew up in needs me to be.
No one knows how I ended up the shortest one in the family—some recessive gene, I guess.
I write my lower-case g’s with an affinity for the first boy I ever loved.
The way I say certain words shares the inflection of one of my closest friend’s excitement.
I only knew my grandfather for 5 years, but his favorite book is still mine as well.
My southern accent slips out when I’m drunk.
I always buy lime white claws because it’s the only flavor two of my pickier friends will touch.
I still say all the catchphrases we’d say on the boat I worked on in South Africa.
I can’t listen to Germs without crying. I can’t listen to Etta James without smiling.
I love Cajun food because it reminds me of home.
I get my eye color from my father. And my fear of love from my mother.
I get my bad eyesight from my grandmother. I get my proclivity for leaving from her too.
