identity

Today's topic of identity fit so well with the series I just finished that I couldn't NOT write about it.  So here goes, five minutes, no editing :-)

My labels are long-stuck.  I've written them across myself with ink no one else can see.  Some of them are easily discerned.  Labels like mother are easily understood, especially when you see me out and about with my four hooligans.  Unless, you think I'm the babysitter, which according to recent comments, many people think I am.  
I'm alive so I must be someone's daughter, right?  Someone must have borne me.  She did and for her I am forever grateful. 
I have a brother, so that makes me a sister.  I have friends and so I am labeled a friend.  
But what about the labels of things I no longer am?  Throughout the past year I have been scrubbing away at a label and it's weird now that it's finally gone.  The seemingly permanent marker has been replaced by a shadow, a circle of un-tanned skin where a ring used to sit....it's a label, and it's gone.  
But there's one label that's indelible.  It's not tanned or white.  It's not removable, shake-able, or erasable, and that's the label that says I'm His.  
And no piece of paper can take that away.