I am the leaves that survive the winter and the buds that bloom in spring. I am a blue balloon in the wind and a large rock at the bottom of a lake. I am whispers, whistling, and distant song from an unknown source. I am thunderclouds and chocolate milk and looking into the eyes of a deer. I am the small dog that did not want to be picked up, a ketchup bottle upside down, slightly undercooked cookies, and midnight. I am the geese that change direction mid-flight, simultaneously, and the oak in the forest that no one knows has fallen until they stumble upon it, too late. I am the paper made for writing letters. I am a candle and a jacket and a microscope. I am the creaking floorboards in a much-loved house and the dictionary of a person who doesn’t need one. I am the baby that stares and stares and stares and smiles when you laugh. I am water and an out-of-focus picture and every kind of road. I am salt. I am fog. I am cellophane-wrapped brownies and wet pavement under traffic lights and shards of sparkling glass in a wind chime. I am the birds – I want so desperately to be the birds – that drift on gusts of wind, wings outstretched, borne on by an invisible presence they trust indefinitely.