I am from one white house.

Downstairs roaring in anger,

doubting these sleepless nights are normal,

but I still snoop through the slots in the stairway,

wondering what’s wrong.

I am from Baba and Dida’s.

Consuming recipes in my coating,

scoring championships in cards,

mesmerized by midnight oldie movies,

wondering why I’m always here.

I am from two tan houses.

Both in the boondocks of Hartland,

hand-me-downs worn as a school uniform,

Sis hollering angrily at Mom,

wondering why I have two houses.

I am from loneliness.

Wednesday banana split meetings,

like the eight o’clock therapy sessions,

processing the pieces,

wondering why I have to be here.

I am from finding myself.

Driving to escape my headaches,

liberty lasting with trust,

becoming my happy six year old self,

wondering where I will end up.

I am from my job.

Scurrying at Shorehaven,

counting the hours I have left,

helping emotional elders,

wondering what’s wrong.