I am a Museum

I am a set of Russian dolls.

I’m not just 31 but also 30, 29, 16, and 2. Infinite versions of myself are nested inside this current form. We’re made of the same material but don’t always get along. My eight-year-old self has her issues with me. But sometimes, I still laugh like her.

I am a quilt. 

I’m an eclectic assembly of fabric scraps sewn together. People come and go, but I have my treasured keepsakes. I rarely speak to my college roommate, but I think of her every time I quote the movies we loved when we talked every day. The colors of my quilt don’t match, so perhaps it’s more sentimental than aesthetic. 

I am a museum. 

My body pays homage to those who have come before me. I have my dad’s chin and my mom’s smile. My spindly fingers belong to my great-grandma. The boy who taught me to lift weights is here, too; I stole his calluses. As my hands freckle with time, I may see myself in them less, but I’ll see my great-grandma in them more.

I am the set of nesting dolls and the painter.

I am the quilt and the seamstress. 

I am the museum and the curator.

We think we’re the story we tell ourselves, but we’re the writer.