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I am From
I am from the Barbie floating down the creek, across the street, filling my shoes with mucky water as two best friends of childhood run to catch her.
I am from the man forts hidden within the trees, occupied by myself and the best friend neighbor.
From the countless nights spent out upon the silent deck, releasing restless thoughts into the midnight air.
I am from dancing around the pool table and learning to ride my first pink huffy with training wheels underneath where my favorite tree used to stand tall.
Her endless limbs shades my play some many summer days.
I am from the big green house that grew in size as I grew in age,
on the backside of the mountaintop, placed between two brick houses.
I am from underneath the leaves and acorns that fall upon the roof,
interrupting my warm blanket-filled slumber on a cool fall night.
I am from a house of many cherished faces.
From the hippie-hearted and the non-competitive.
The stacks of card stock and array of photographs thrown into a box, that eventually make their way into permanent colorful memories.
I am from the journal of a bubbly, blond-haired, pony-tailed six year old.
I am from the “I can spell that you know!”
and sitting on the first step of the second flight of stairs to listen in on private words.
From a roller coaster ride of emotions
and the never ending, “I want THAT!”
I am from the tears of my six month old nephew who met God too early.
From that same abandoned house I used to explore on sunny days before it crumbled down on Brendan's life.
I am from the fear of just one. more. day. with Nanna and the sleepovers full of Yatzi before she became my angel.
I am from the loss of many
I am from the queen of candles and obsessive perfume.
From the king of corny jokes and playing HORRIBLE music on the four hour trip to Wildwood.
I am from the mom with two closets and purses she forgot she even had.
I am from “when did I get you that!?” and being picked up late because she threw her keys away in a Victoria Secret's garbage can.
I am from the backseat of the motorcycle, happy to be daddy's little girl,
off in different directions each and every time.
I am from falling asleep to the words of James Taylor's “Sweet Baby James” being sung to me.
I am from the back rubs that slow tear filled hiccups, the excitement of Christmas Eve sleepovers in James room, and the “why can I never keep my fish alive!?”
I am from, and always will be from c.h.i.l.d.h.o.o.d