I am not from the hustle-bustle of the city nor
am I from the moo-juice, egg-laying countryside.



No.
I am from and endless row of homes that lack personality, a middle size town where the only trend that doesn't go out of style is boredom, well, that and bluejeans.

I am from a pile of musty earth smelling sparks
that fell from the trees, waiting to erupt like a
volcano when I jump into their feather light flames.

I am from quick strolls to the mini-mart with my
mom, my plastic sandals flip-flopping, flip-flopping
on the hot asphalt, then cooling the sweat on our
brows, we drink in the cool Coca-Cola ice crystals.

I am from intense matches of soccer with my dad.
The ball skimming the dew covered blades of
grass, glistening against a watercolor sky. A piece
of art that only gets old when it is to dark to see.

I am from neighborhood games of Cops and
Robbers, bicycle crashes, and roller blade skinned
knees. From sun scorched grass, yellow, and
rough to the touch. A hayfield concealing long
lost Barbie shoes and lemonade buying coins.

I am from long days of baking where my rolling pin
moves left-left-right, left-left-right to the tune of
“Jingle Bells,” forming savory sugars, salty snacks,
and scrumptious sweets, that both taste and smell like
heaven itself were in our very own small kitchen oven.

I am from a beautiful chorus of screams and yells,
delightful smells of mouth burning cocoa and
over buttered popcorn, a sea with crashing waves,
blue and gray, where our team fights the never ending
current, illuminated by the never ceasing moonshine.

I am from a place where my greatest memories, hundreds
of pictures, old yellowed newspaper clippings, and pretty
floral dresses, are kept in a large Tupperware container.