This is Me

The glorious chaos of youth

Moments before this photo was taken, I was clean. My hair was brushed. My barrette served some sort of purpose.

But I harnessed the power of earth, smudging it across my soft skin in an instant. I harnessed the power of wind to rustle my straw bale hair, and a fire that burned in my small belly, propelling me constantly onward and upward.

No water — that would only have washed away my splendor.

My mother says that she could turn her head for a single minute and my whole self would be undone: hair wild, clothes rumpled, face smeared with one thing or another. I did eat dirt and grass, I won’t lie about that.

I was feral in a dictionary definition sort of way: “existing in a natural state, as animals or plants; not domesticated or cultivated; wild.” I moved about freely, driven by hunger, impulse, and the weather.

I have beautiful memories of climbing. Beautiful memories of trees and mud and grass. Of running and building and breathing.

I like this picture more than any studio portrait, because of the story it contains — the peeling paint and bruised shins. The things that are missing. The things that are visible.

Here I am with bitten-down fingernails digging into my flesh, resting on the rusted throne of broken things. This is me.

Thanks to KiKi Walter for sharing the prompt, “Pick a photo, any photo, and let it inspire a story.”

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