i am the orange lamp in the corner of my cubicle.

i am the half-full water glass with the b.c. comic character on the side, the one that i got from a former boyfriend, the one he got from hardee’s or mcdonald’s back when they used to do that.

i am a bag—many bags—crammed full of receipts, envelopes, a brush, some lip gloss, a wallet or two, a slightly dirty spoon, a whole bunch of keys, a water bottle, sunglasses, a bent postcard, and a slightly molding orange.

i am a pair of turquoise shoes with one white scuff on the left heel.

i am a dirty blue pick-up truck with a frozen passenger side mirror and in need of an oil change.

i am a 37-year-old stuffed animal with matted fur, gone grey and droopy with dirt and slobber and snot and tears.

i am the most comfortable yard sale chair, finally invigorated by a trip to the upholsterer’s shop.

i am a starry baby quilt, made by a very dear friend.

i am a dixie cup full of scuppernong grape hulls, juicy, deflated, and smelling of ferment.

i am a handful of farm dirt that feels like the beginning of time.