I am from a hilltop with a view of the Valley, from fast Fords, and homemade sun tea.
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.
"I have no special talent.