I am from sensations.
Grandma's facial expression,
trying not to laugh after I was told to quiet down at Saturday night bingo.
Heat pressing all around me
while all the tanning beds in the salon are running.
My steering wheel on a January morning,
being held by only two shivering fingers on my right hand.
Red Bull,
Goldfish crackers,
and wintergreen gum.
Jamming out in the car with my brother
to a bagpipe solo after discovering an Irish ­radio station.
Waking up on the basement floor in July,
wearing a bonfire-scented sweatshirt.
Sitting in the aroma of a coffee shop for three hours,
catching up with an old friend.
Heart skipping a beat
before leaping into a swimming pool without testing the water first.
Where I'm from is defined by moments.