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I am from orange marigold flowers that my mom planted every year, waking up to halwa and cholle, knowing that I’m going to be late to school, and
Veggie Tales’ VCR tapes that demanded my attention every Saturday
morning.
I am from Indian soap operas that I sneaked downstairs to watch when
everyone was hypnotized by the TV.
I am from redolent marsalas that still sting my eyes, but don’t spark a single tear from my mom.

I am from Superman Slip N’ Slides on rainy days in the backyard, being intertwined in my baby blue, worn blanket, that had a boy and a girl holding hands stitched on it, and racing my neighbor’s granddaughter from the big tree at the beginning of our neighborhood to the cul-de-sac.
I am from sitting at home, watching TV with my cousins while my baby brother was being born, longing to see him.
I am from the sun-baked, gritty sand at Panama City Beach.

I am from the tree house in the backyard of the for-sale house. Small, cramped, and creaky. It was never sturdy for holding people, but always perfect for
holding secrets. Summer break was never boring when Alana and I could
spend it there.

I am from feeling the rush of stealing red and pink perfumed roses, with the morning dew still clinging on, from Mr. King’s backyard, and feeling the
sharp prick of the thorns as they brushed across my skin.

I am a flower. Each of my growing petals are a memory. Some may fall off, but the important petals that make me, me stay. Yes, I have thorns, but the best flowers do.




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