Becoming

Mrs. Hoover knelt in front of me, a gesture reserved for the quietest of her preschool students.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” she repeated.

I knew what I would become, but it had nothing to do with wanting or wishing. My fate felt solid, and it vied for my attention.

I tried to ignore the itch.

Even at a young age I knew that it would be dangerous to provide details.

“It doesn’t matter what I want to be, only what I am becoming,” I recited, the scales on my ankle yearning to be scratched.

From Guest Contributor Sarah Vernetti