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Where I'm From
I am from freezing rain,
hail battering the roof, sounding like bullets,
and slippery, easy to slide snow.
I am from the red brick house with overwhelming navy blue shutters,
white poles in front,
full of elegant furniture like a silver rubbed bed as well as the matching black couch,
that my mom barely allows me to sit on.
I am from the glistening Swarovski crystals in the piano room,
shaped like dogs, swans, even a life-sized parrot.
They heard me play the sleek, hard ivory keys of the piano every day,
from when I was five, whining, unable to sit still,
to now, when I’m thirteen.
I am from my mom’s diamond ring and aquamarine earrings.
I am from, as quoted on a sign in the kitchen, “Frozen food, take out, and delivery,”
my mom’s frozen dumplings, the only meal she can make,
and my family’s love of sweet, tangy, juicy, succulent watermelon.
I am from my dad’s extensive collection of ties,
and my mom’s unfinished baby albums,
her millions of pictures without a home,
still in our library, in a little square red box.
I am from memories of times with my brother,
from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,
to the Olympic Obstacle Course,
ending with me crying.
I am from juicy fruit,
the form of currency we used to pay each other for doing something bad.
I am from our arguments every day that continued through the years,
when we argued as toddlers,
to now, when nothing has changed,
I am from a city,
a hustling and bustling town,
with a small country feel,
a place greater than all the rest,
a small dot on a map,
that I call home,