I am from windchimes
from Windex and Raid
I am from the swingset
(Rusty, creaking,
it smelled like blood)
I am from the hydrangea
the big oak tree
who was cut down, only so I could water it to “grow back.”

I’m from the christmas doves and
diabetes
from Mawmaw and Gam-maw
and Nanny
I’m from the always-going-wrong family vacations and
sneaking food before saying grace
from “Can I help you cook?” and “I love you a bushel and a peck!”
I’m from rarely going to mass
and watching my parents fumble as they try to figure out which hand holds the Eucharist.

I’m from Grand Point and Italy,
tobacco and spaghetti and meatballs.
From putting Tweetie-Bird on the fan and watching him spin around for hours with Cassie,
the hand my dad wrapped up due to the burst of fireworks.

In my Grandma’s closet,
were boxes of photos I would hide behind during hide and seek.
I am from these memories,
rooted deep throughout the family tree,
that are carried on branch by branch.