I am from the rumbling laundry machine,
from sardines and Quaker oats.
I am from the rough, white walls of my room.
The carpet softer than a cloud.
I am from the jumble of trees, leaves, and shrubs,
the Aloe Vera plant
whose long gone limbs I remember
as if they were my own.
I’m from Chicken Paprikash and dark brown hair,
from Jessy and Uncle Dave.
I’m from grammar corrections and baking imperfections,
and from stubbing oh so many toes.
I’m from “when you’re older” and “practice your piano”
and “I before E except after C”
I’m from ham on Christmas Eve
I’m from Los Angeles and Wales,
hamburgers and hot dogs.
From my mother’s dancing feet,
her toes bleeding from ballet shoes.
Photo albums on the shelves,
in the closet, under the bed,
filling up ever space in my heart.