I am from mason jars
from cabbage patch dolls and Vicks Vapo-Rub
I am from the that little place in the eaves in the attic
It smelled of old books and scratched like wool
I am from the lilac bushes
the moonflowers
their fragrance subtle and cloying
I’m from the hanging Christmas ornaments and tired, achy joints
from Laura and Vesta
I’m from the loud talkers
and tight huggers
from “Spare the rod, spoil the child”
and “Do unto others…”
I’m from Methodist,
And the Bible holds all of the answers.
I’m from Marion and Gallipolis Ferry,
Pinto beans and fresh baked buiscuts,
From the secrets of my Grandfather’s time in Korea
And my Great-Grandmother’s time as a “flapper”.
In a flowered box high up on a shelf in little sleeves of plastic,
Yellowed pictures sit in rows like soldiers waiting for their call.
People without names or stories,
But faces I know as well as my own.
I am from the silver lining in the storm clouds
Each little moment a ray of sunshine breaking through the darkness.
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