in my back pocket.

There are certain words that I keep close; they remain on my person always, so that I may draw from them at a moment's notice.  Their worth never depletes, no matter how many times I use them.

Among my collection is a sentence spoken to me by an acquaintance a few years back.  You have great cheekbones, she said.  They were originally my mother's and I always envied them.  Each time I sweep blush across my cheeks, I remember this and I smile.

The other day, my friend told me that I had always been the most artistic person she knew.  I stuffed that in my back pocket, too.  The next time I am struggling for words, or can't compile the proper color scheme, I will pull those words out and breathe in their warmth.

My mother tells me that I have class.  She compliments me on my deep blue eyes and says that I can make anything beautiful; you just have that touch, she tells me.  Her words are always filled with so much love that I can't help but believe her, to believe in myself.

There was that time in Florida when I was approached by a man with a camera.  He asked me if he could take my picture.  You have the most contagious smile, was his reasoning.  He put that photo on a large poster and pinned it up in various places backstage.  I think of that moment when my smile is forced.

My husband tells me that I have great legs and that I am a good cook.  He compliments my writing and says that my intelligence is attractive.  I can feel his truth when he says these things, and just like with my mother, I can't help but believe him.

It's a good feeling, belief.