I am from aged words on tattered pages, from Noxzema and Colgate.

I am from the place of crushed dreams.
I am from under the sycamore tree, the fields of grass.
I am from going to synagogue and a kosher home, from Paula and Scott and Caprentier.
I am from the aftershock of a storm and endless night of fear.
From looking life in the eyes and realizing that I can do anything.
I am from the tradition of playing fiddles on roof tops and not working on Saturdays.
I’m from California and Europe, salads and potato pancakes.
From the hospital, the shaky hugs that couldn’t be explained, and the birth of children.
I am from under the bed next to the aged words on tattered pages.