In your image, I am made to build legos with my son.

In your image, I am made to sit quietly to ponder the words you put on my heart.

In your image, I am made to ache when met with others pain.

I was six years old. I sat backstage after my dance recital number, wearing my tap shoes and pink polka-dotted outfit, my hair in a bun and the taste of my mom’s Esteé Lauder lipstick in my mouth.