I was raised in two parts.

I was raised by a too-honest, loud singing,
“It’s my job to embarrass you” kind of mother.

I was also raised by a “Television will kill you,
eat your broccoli, we’re going skiing whether
you like it or not” kind of father.

I was raised by trips to the pumpkin patch,
and then to Starbucks, of course.
By days at the beach, with broken seashells
and sand in our socks as souvenirs.
And KINK F.M. always playing in the background.

I was also raised by long car rides up rocky, winding mountain roads, singing along to John Denver.
By warm campfires that Dad could start with a single match, and way too many s’mores.

I was raised by the smell of banana bread baking.
By Mom behind her camera, “Just one more shot! Smile!”

I was also raised by the sound of Dad’s guitar, playing the same song over and over because it was my favorite.

I was raised in two parts.