I am from Grandma’s famous cutlets,
from scraped knees and severed earthworms.
I am from the abyss of woods behind the back fence.
(dirty, itchy
It reeked of fresh mulch from the neighbor’s yard)
I am from the climbing tree,
the branch abundant Oak
whose every branch could support my body weight.
I’m from the tedious wait to open Christmas presents at Grandma’s and the echo of the chaotic screech of my house,
from Anna and John
and who can forget the restless dog Cosmo.
I’m from the public embarrassments of my thick-headed brothers and
the only things I could buy marked with a colored clearance sticker.

I am from a prayer and
the fictional monster under my bed.
I’m from erratic church visits,
But always went out for breakfast when we did attend
I’m from the quiet depths of Southern Italy,
fresh garden tomatoes and paper thin sliced prosciutto,
From the sinkhole that gave in while we were playing on the lawn
and sitting through annual poker nights eating pizza as I watched in my pajamas.

I am from the worn out reclining chair,
watching snowflakes hit the window.
I am from a vast family of many loving relatives,
who stick together like the sap of the tree hovering over our heads
spreading its wings creating protection from the sun,
while enjoying quality time just being around one another,
hoping for the playing cards not to blow off the rough grass.