I am from the washing line,

clinging to red brick.

I am from the no-more-than-a-mile-away boundary.

Keeping the grands,

And great grands close.

I’m from the rule of,

You must eat before you leave.

I’m from the tallest,

and gangliest of limbs.

I’m from the only short gene that exists,

on generations of average to above average.

I am from the Japanese plum tree,

Made for picking in the spring months.

I’m from the orange tree,

That was always too high.

I’m from the grapefruit tree,

That was always bitter.

I’m from glasses in old age,

“Because the eyes always get you”,

I am from the 100 people,

I’ll never be able to name.

I am from a long lineage of readers,

The only writer in the midst.

I am from the laugh lines,

Frozen in time.

I’m from the brown eyes,

In every single one.

I’m from the voices,

Heard even in the silence.

I am from the moments,

Sealed in the glass.

In the captured stills,

Lay memories of the past.

Crafting a final product,

Yet to be seen.