Heritage

By
Heritage

I’m from where wasabi meets homemade ice cream.
from the little bottom,
the model T,
the watershed,
and the old shop.
I’m from fishing derbies,
deer seasons
and fireworks.
I’m from “Who’s gonna jump in, in March?”

from “Who’s gonna get the 30 pointer?”

and from “Who’s gonna win the washer tournament?”
I’m from carhooding in January,
from playing in the rain in April,
from fourwheeling in July,
I’m from the rifle range,
the pistol range,
and the .22 range.
I’m from dobbing the square with friends.
I’m from staying at the fair all night.
From funnel cake eating contests,
and deep-fried twinkies.
I’m from Narna’s kitchen.
Peanut butter, homemade jam,
cinnamon bread, and just-caught fried fish.
I’m from eating homemade mac n’ cheese with Papa,
and from studying his face,
thinking how every wrinkle tells a story.

These memories swarm my thoughts,
and when I come down the drive way,
you can see in my eyes that this is where I’m from.





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