I am from books, from Lego’s and peanut butter.
I am from the second story, high rise, apartment building.
I am from the oak tree, strong and massive, black iris, and the rotting, cracking tree stump.I am from Boy Scouts and blue eyes, from Jim, William Sr., and Donald.
I am from the loud and smart.
From “The monsters can’t get you, you have the wrong kind of closet doors” and “You’re too smart for your own good sometimes”.I'm from New York City to Rochester Hills, Yule Log Cake to Cornell chicken.
From the time my dad cut his thumb with a potato peeler, to the time
I fell of my bike and gashed my forehead, even to when I moved. Moving is a jumbled mass of unmarked wires. I am from the things of my past, stored neatly in bins on the top shelf of my closet. I am from the neatly made photo albums on their shelf, lined up like kids at an ice cream truck. I am from used books, from built Lego structures and Nutella.
I am from the two story, central staircase, comfortable, house.
I am from the seedling crab apple tree, the deep orange day lily and the freshly mowed grass. I'm from Carbondale to Kalamazoo, fatacos to sushi.
From the time my mom broke her wrist before I was born, to the time my dad had surgery on his knee. A book of past school years and a time capsule, a sturdy wood box marked in faded gold lettering, “Open with pleasure in 2025”.