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  • Pine trees, the needles on the ground crack when I walk up to the stone bench in the sun. Looking down the valley, I see the dark green forest mountains shaping this fairytale landscape I always look at in New Mexico.
    Last time I saw you, you asked me who I am. This weighty, heavy question is still floating in my mind, bumping back and forth, making me dizzy. I sit down. The cold stone touches my naked legs, maybe I should have worn the jeans instead. My red dress flutters in the soft wind gust, I flatten the cloth and sit up.
    You don’t know, but you just put your finger on my weak point, in my invisible wound where the skin doesn’t want to recover. As if it wants to remind me everyday, that it’s about time to put it under the cold water, clean it out. I don’t know who I am, will I ever? To be honest, I do not like to talk a lot about myself, I rather listen to you and the others, your voice, your stories, I could listen to them for hours.
    I often catch myself thinking that what I have to tell is not important, only half as interesting as your words that you gently pull out of your box and proudly show to me. You ask me about mine. I keep silent.
    My box is decently filled… and at times deep, so that you have to reach far to catch the memories, the words, the letters. I am not someone who exposes herself, screams “Hey, this is me!”. I am insecure. I expect others to come, open my box and maybe reach in and find out about me, define who I am.
    You smile at me, make me say “It’s about time!”. It’s about time to turn around, take all those pieces out of my inventory, everything I have collected. Some of them are shiny and bright and smell like a summer breeze or chocolate cake and banana milkshake, maybe yours is blue or green, mine is red, but we have those pieces in common, you and me.
    I hold the pieces in the sun, put them together, stand up from the bench, step forward to the edge and scream into the valley “Hey, this is me!”. I laugh and a water drop rolls down my cheek. You stand behind me, we are maybe five steps apart. I look at you, you hesitate, I see it in your eyes. Than you walk slowly up to me and look at the opened box, at the pieces.
    The little sassy girl that cut your hair when the parents weren’t there and you saying nothing and only smiling, the times we walked in the forest and sat on the high seat and reflected on our lives, the moments where you hugged me, asked me how I am and we started talking about God, life and the world while cutting paprika or when we sat down in the park and had good times, when I dance with you and we share this passion, when I cried in front of you and you comforted me, when you look at me and I know that you do not know how much I love you. I think in all of my objects there is a reflection of you. I will never fully know who I am, there are objects in my box that are lost, some that remain and many that get added to it, I guess I am what’s in my box and what is in you.
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