I was born last in a line of seven, a happy accident. I failed a paper and never told my parents. I wondered if I could walk the roof like Anne; I could have easily reached it from my bedroom window. I once built a fort out of lawn chairs. My friends met me under the pine trees. Actions speak louder than words. If I’d died young, the crisp, cold water would have gently carried me away. I can still smell “spring” – lemon cleaner mixed with the aroma of freshly cut grass. I ruined and repaired a friendship. Don’t sit down because you’re rocking the boat. I did not cry at my grandfather’s funeral. I found safety in the the corner behind my bed; one careful climb over the headboard, and I nestled into a pile of blankets and books. My heart broke in the gazebo on a sunny, fall afternoon. Orange is the loneliest color. I have always lacked courage. Just do that thing you do. I carry scars from surgeries and siblings. I fell in love with British literature in college. The carpet burned my legs when we slid down the stairs. When I held my nephew for the first time, I was sure I’d break him. Salvation came at 13. I sent out invitations, but no one responded. Golden Rod Candy Kisses taste like childhood. I am dust.