My version of I Am From



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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