The letter s

I still write my letter S like the girl I sat next to in my seventh grade Spanish class did.

From the bottom to the top, not top to bottom like people normally would. 

I remember being so fascinated that she would do that, and trying it out myself whenever I would remember to look.

Eventually, and subconsciously, that became my default. 

I tell stories the same way my mom does.

My facial expressions and hands explain more of it than my words ever will, just like her.

We have the same pauses and dramatizations, just like we have the same brown eyes and boney jaw. 

Even though her story telling drips heavily with her accent, that doesn’t stop my dad from telling me how much I resemble her every time I talk.

I wrap the laces of my converse around my ankle once before tying them, just like my aunt did. 

Growing up, there was no one as cool as her in my eyes.

And so naturally, I mimicked her in every way.

From her jokes and interests to her likes and dislikes to her endless and ever changing hobbies.

And even down to her shoes.

Although I grew up and out of the rest and found my own things that make my heart hum, I never stopped wrapping my laces.

I am a mosaic of all the people I’ve ever been lucky enough to experience.

I am assembled piece by piece, fragment by fragment, memory by memory.

At the bottom of my left foot I have the signatures of dozens of people, signing off on the mark they left and the contribution they made in the creation of all that I am.

I carry everyone with me in my mannerisms and habits.

Even the people I have not seen in years, in a way I still see every day.

I am simply parts I’ve collected, glued together by admiration and love.

And I still write my letter S from the bottom to the top.