I am from a blue-old swing set, from “No Tears” Shampoo and hopeless attempts at staying up
past bedtime.
I am from the faded white, chipped house.
I am from the pavement of scraped knees, from always
attempting to climb the fat four-trunked tree.

I am from kids sit on the floor, and way too loud laughter,
from Edna and Cyril, and the


openness of the Haupert-family farm.
I am from the incense lighters and coloring dreams with chalk.
I am from the purple rosary gifted as a newborn—Catholicism

leaks through my family’s veins.
From “I’ll be there next time” and “I’d like a cheeseburger.”

I am from Joyce and Virgil, and the big family nose.
Finding the pickle hidden in the Christmas tree, and long games of checkers.
From “sketti” and accidentally destroying good china.

I’m from small-town Iowa, steaming cheesy potatoes and

broasted chicken.
From the time my brother burned his finger helplessly on the lawnmower, the

way my sister swallowed what she thought was a chocolate Easter egg.

I am from behind the small attic door, boxes of dust

and simple memories—from the uncle I never met, from
wedding photos and babies I don’t recognize. These are my stories, these
are what got me here, this is the past, but
so much of it is my future. Worn-out pictures to help me
figure out my own worn-out story.
I am home.