A Beautiful Piece of Pottery

I am a child.

I am all the things of my past.

I am the laughter of my mother,

Eyes crinkling at the corners

Left dimple making its' presence known.

I am the eyebrows of my father,

Shaped like triangles,

Pieces sticking out like they have a mind of their own.

I am all I see.

Sunlight pouring through the airplane windows,

Revealing eye squinting rays,

Colors of blue, yellow, orange, and purple.

Reaching the top of the Ferris wheel,

Able to see Pearl Tower peaking out,

Almost like a paper background.

I am all I hear.

"Stand up straight!"

"Rhythm, rhythm! Pay attention to the rhythm!"

A choir of crickets chirping in sync on a humid July afternoon.

The soft crunch of satisfaction after taking a bite out of a marshmallow.

I am all I smell.

A mixture of mint and tea leaves,

With a bit of sweetness,

The scent of freshly mowed grass.

And the strong, musty combination of oil and paints.

I am all I feel and taste.

The disgusting stickiness that never seemed to go away after that violent peach fight.

The sharpness poking into my neck when falling down the escalator.

Slightly bitter, wooden taste of the other end of the pencil.

And the sour aftertaste of skittles.

And all I remember.

Trying over forty different types of chocolate.

Seeing snow,

For the first time.

And tripping down the stairs,

With my cousin's high heels.

I am all I've been taught.

"Chew with your mouth closed!"

"Stop sitting like a man!"

I am all I think.

Daydreaming.

Over analyzing.

About every little thing.

I am all of those things.

I'm like a block of clay,

Malleable, unpredictable,

I am not complete.

But one day I will stand

Glazed and painted,

Fired and molded,

And present myself like beautiful piece of pottery I will become.

Because

I'm the block of clay to the pottery.