I am from a white, hand-me-down bed frame,
classic cars and music from a decade that is not my own.
I am from warm coffee cake
and the sound of an old piano in a lonely room.
I am from the once green and white walls that run the length of a
hallway as long as the history written in the house itself.
I’m from the unexpected—
unexpected strength in distance,
unexpected friendship in hurt,
from the unexpected rhythm of life.
I am from messy handwriting on the back of a postcard
sent from New York in 1947,
from a picture taken in a foreign place—
“some lonesome gal.”
I am from dreams of the city
but corn fields in the window.
From the “reading gene,”
sudoku and cribbage.
I am from hair golden like sunshine,
ocean blue eyes
and flowers on a red dress.
I’m from rain on the window
and melancholy melodies meddling in my mind.
From sweet rays of sunshine
and Rays of a different kind.
I am from the unexpected,
rain saturating the window
and lonely rooms filled with the sound of an old piano.
And I will always be from history written in the walls,
for that history is written in me.