I am a broken jar

held together by the hands of those who love me.

feigning adulthood

with weekly trips to the grocery store,

budgets carefully crafted in Excel (including formulas)

and the nagging sense that any moment

someone will see me–

the fifteen year old running the show

behind thirty two year old eyes.

My daughter reminds me often

how little I’ve changed since I was born.

I am still just as frustrated at being told what to do (or not do)

and would rather eat chocolate chip cookies than whatever is for breakfast,

lunch or dinner.

I would rather lay on the couch and read

than anything I’m supposed to

and I often do only what I must to keep up the appearance

of responsibility

and make room for what makes me happy.

I am still sometimes surprised

to find myself a wife and mother

with still more years spent

a lover of books, horses, and water

than these other, more demanding roles.

I love them all-

my faces, my costumes,

(even the grown-up one)

I wouldn’t wear them if I didn’t.

And the theatre (if not always the audience)

seems to forgive me if

I don’t find my way to my mark on time

or miss the occasional cue

while distracted backstage with an especially good book.