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I Am a Maker

    I guess I knew I was a maker almost before I knew anything else was true. Like breathing, I knew to make.   I was the maker on the sidewalk with chalk covered hands, in the front sunroom of the house on Center Street playing school, under the big pines writing in my journal imagining myself as an author, in the barn loft putting on a sold-out play, sketching in the backseat of the car, making up commercials …