I am from the CD Roms that litter the car, from Paul Simon to Joni Mitchell.

I am from the dog hair tumbleweeds drifting through the hallways like wandering cattle, until we become so frustrated we finally sweep.

I am from the cherry blossom tree that blooms for my brother; I am from the water that springs forth from the faucet, quenching my throat.

I am from the lazy Sunday mornings and nimble fingers, from David and Tyler who I marvel at their talent and effortless ability to create a river of sound.

I am from the cold-fingered and the obscure book collectors. From “Little lamb, who made thee?” and other soft dronings from long-forgotten poems and newspaper clippings.

I am from Methodists and Presbyterians long gone astray. I am from a place where we lackadaisically refer to the Bible; I am allowed to walk any philosophical path I choose.

I’m from where the Old South and Northern Europe meet in a way that, to me, can only be described like when you pour oil into water. The morning brings scents of my father’s strong, dark coffee behind my mother’s soft, sweeter one and cookies are nibbled long before noon.

From the way my dogs bolt out the door on their small, short flights of freedom, to the way I was brought up by the southern etiquette of my proud, Baptist nanny, every event that touches me shapes me and leaves its mark

I suppose I am from my attic and other small, cramped places where mementos lay lost like treasure waiting, wanting to be found. Because what greater joy is there, then to be remembered ages after you hardly recall yourself.