I am from the Georgia Red Clay on the dirt roads that don’t come out of your clothes too easy and mama complains.
I’m from the smell of Daddy’s Old Spice and Mama’s perfume on Sunday means that’s it’s going to be a good day.
I’m from the tangle and knotted willow tree behind my house and the prickly rosebush in the front yard.
I’m from the towering pine trees that guard over the yard all solemn and alone.
I’m from a place where books cover every inch of my bookshelf.
I’m from a family raised firm on the King James Bible.
I’m from the talks me and my brother had late at night after he got off of work.
I’m from a place where Friday night movies are tradition not to be broken.
I’m from a place where family means everything, and the rest doesn’t matter.
I’m from a church that treats you like family.
I’m from the respect that molded me into who I am.
I’m from a house we remolded.
I’m from where lessons are better learned the first time around.
I’m from Home.