Cornbread and potatoes. I hate cornbread and potatoes. I poke the bland mess around my plate with the tip of my fork. Every night I push the dry, tasteless, potato from this side to that side, then take a large bite of cornbread and send it down with a gulp of water. I tell momma I love it though. Ever since daddy got sick she's been a real stress ball and can't afford much else.
Daddy's always been real good at the saxophone. He used to play downtown with his boys at the music hall. But when he got sick he became weak and had to give it up. I wanted to make him proud and learn to play but I’ll never be good enough. My fingers are too short and I can't read music. When momma goes out and daddy's asleep I close my eyes and pretend like I'm playing on a stage with people cheering my name while dancing to my music. When I open them again I realize it’s just me, alone in my kitchen, chasing a dream I’ll never catch.
Playing saxophone is just one of the things I'm not good at. I can't sing, I can't dance, and I can't play sports. I'm not funny, I'm not interesting, and I'm really not cute. My skin is dark, darker than anybody's in my family and is always ashy on my knees and especially my elbows. My lips are the first thing you see and my front teeth look as though they've been made for a rabbit. My hair is no longer than my chin and frizzes from root to tip. Daddy says I'm beautiful but I know his eyes aren't what they used to be.

Catherine is beautiful, and funny, and smart (except for her idea to run away with that dang boyfriend). All the boys in school liked Catherine and all the girls wanted to be her. People never believed we were sisters. They always said I must have been adopted. I used to tell all them to shut their mouths but then I actually started to believe it. Maybe I was adopted. Maybe Catherine and I really weren't sisters. It would make sense. She was so perfect and I never came close. I asked momma one day if she was my real momma, and you know what she said, "Now hush Jocelyn! You are my baby and you belong in this family." I smiled and gave her a hug but deep down I questioned if I really did.

All my life I've wondered where I belong. Where my place is in this world? I go to sleep and wake up with one thought on my mind. Why am I here? I went for a walk this morning and passed a crippled, frail old woman trying to sell her paint set. What did she do in her life to put her on the street selling paint to afford her next meal? Does she have friends? Family? A place to go home to? Somewhere she belongs? I gave her all the contents in my pockets in return for the set. She leaned in and whispered to me, "Live freely, love deeply, and paint what's in your heart."

I ran home, grabbed any paper I could find, locked myself in my room and began to paint. I closed my eyes and moved the brush back and forth, up and down, added more color, and began again. My hand moved freely without any say from my brain. I didn't know what I was creating. I didn't know when I would be finished. All I knew was that I didn't know. I didn't know anything. I painted for what felt like hours. I stared at my canvas. What did I just paint? What is in my heart? I stared for a while longer and realized it was my city. I saw my city. I saw the dark buildings and deep skies. I saw exactly where I belong. In this city, with my momma and daddy, eating cornbread and potatoes.