I’m from the home built by my father’s hands, with open forests and hot summer nights on the
porch surrounded by humming cicadas.
I am from the day lilies, the butterfly bushes, and the tall oaks that have protected me since I was five.
I’m from the early morning rises and the stubborn-headedness; from a Barbara and Allen and whom
I’ve never met.
I am from family board games and Sunday morning pancake gatherings.
I’m from the “You’ll learn” and “One day you’ll see.”
I am from a family line with too-soon deaths.
I am from the city of Brotherly Love, but from the far off lands of Germany and Italy.
I am from dried-out meatloaves that I never wanted to eat and plentiful Thanksgiving meals that I
salivated for all year.
From the grandfather who I’m told I’m too much alike, the over-abundance of cousins and cousins
and cousins, and the mother who I aspire to be.
I am from the experiences I’ve heard and the experiences I’ve lived, from the stories I will continue to
tell, and the wild dreams I’ll continue to pursue.