I’m from sidewalks tattooed in chalk,
nestled between the triplets and the comic book collector.
I’m from pumpkins in September,
Christmas lights in November.
I’m from Blackeyed Susans
that preserve Grandma’s essence.

I’m from the middle of family portraits,
high above everyone on my father’s shoulders.
I’m from homemade spaghetti sauce,
“Fuggetaboutit!” speaking for the red wine.
I’m from Sinatra’s melodic embrace,
one that encircles the house in holiday season
and stirs Grandpa’s drunken waltz.

I’m from teachers and diplomas,
Summa Cum Laude and scholarship awards.
I’m from one point off and just behind my sister,
a reserved home on the Honor Roll.

I’m from the ninth green,
muddy divots and a wicked slice into the trees.
I’m from broken tees and grass-stained irons,
the ball that barely drops in for par.

I’m from hours behind a keyboard,
manuscripts, agents, rejections.
I’m from multiple personalities
that come alive on paper.

I’m from uncontainable passion,
lust, loss and literature.
I’m from the starting line of a new beginning.