Where am I from? The house near the llamas.

The house that looks like a castle. The house in the circle.

The house with an chain of cars, lined up in the driveway,

the house with the burnt out street light that sometimes flickers faintly.

But which answer do I give?

Where am I from? A family obviously.

A family spread out and close by.

A family, where everyone knows

each other's favorite colors, birthdays, and favorite songs.

A family that gets along—

that talks daily, visits weekly, parties monthly.

But is that what I say?

Where am I from? Geographically or metaphorically?

I am from Hartford. From Bristlecone. From Hartland. From Wisconsin.

I am from the mountainous rock,

sitting in my front yard, the one we used to pretend was a bus.

I am from the laundry basket, that I tumbled over.

I am from the stairs where I dove down, which delivered my stitches.

But is that what they want?

Where am I from? Do they mean my hobbies?

I am from the kitchen, where I often spend my time baking—

whether it be out of hunger or stress.

I am from our theatre room, where I watch dull documentaries.

I am from the ski hills, where I often plummet to the ground.

But do they care about that? They want to know where I am from.