I am from the endless amount of softball cleats in a box in the garage. I am from the dog slobber that can be found in every room. I am from the pink and zebra print walls of my room to my now gray walls covering the pink memories. I am from the record player in my room holding dusty vinyl to the bookshelf that hasn’t been touched in months with books getting older and older.

I am from the picnic table in the yard that held the ingredients to the smores and had no other use to the rusty trampoline, waiting to be used again someday. I am from the hanging hammocks, swaying in the warm breeze to the new private fence outlining the backyard’s shape. I am from the dirt patches in the grass where kickball memories are held.

I am from the crazy neighbors who do what they want to the creek now hidden with newly built houses to the empty lot where a playground is waiting to be built. I am from the pothole I hit every time I go to pull out of my driveway. I am from the trees that separate one house from the next. I am from the fort we made as kids.

I am from being asked “Is this what you want?” or “I need to know what you’re feeling” to “ I am so proud of you kid.” I am from the generations of my people, dating back forever. I am from my notebook where memories are stored to the many more behind the next open door. I am from these places. I am from these memories.