I live in the large brick house smack in the middle
of Oak Drive and Hummingbird Lane
in the small suburb of Oak Brook, Illinois.
Our family moved there four years ago.
It is not where I am from; it is where
I ended up.
I am from the small red and white house on Burlington Avenue in Lisle,
the one that slanted up on a hill, the one that blended right in
with all the other small red and white and blue and brown houses that sat,
side by side, on the block.

I look out my window and see the river
with our silver gray canoe floating in the murky water.
A magnificent white crane stands
and takes watch over the littered soda cans.
Summer afternoons are filled with peaceful canoe rides through the water
and the sound of the paddles slushing through the ripples.
Neighbors wave at me from their front porches
with glasses of red wine in their hands.
Before, where I’m from, I looked out the window and I saw the road
and beyond that the large expanse of grass and land
with the “For Sale” sign pounded into the ground.
I remember trips to the lake with my sister
to catch fish with our bare hands
and throw them into plastic red buckets.
Our pants were soaked with the smelly piscine water,
our hands slick with the smell of fish.
Loud laughs echoed through the air
when yet another fish slipped out of our hands
to flounder away into the dirty water.

I look out my window and I see cars-
BMW, Lexus, Mercedes-Benz;
the 10-year old kids inside are grim faced,
preparing to go to yet another math competition
or some sort of spelling bee.
The 10-year old kids’ fathers are millionaires
and if they don’t become millionaires or lawyers or doctors...
None of the cars are like our family car,
a blue Toyota van with scratches on the side.
We drive it to swim practices, fancy restaurants, piano lessons.
Back where I’m from
our car was the biggest in the neighborhood
and usually only driven to school
when we missed the bus.
After school we played kickball
and pedaled around on our
rusty old bikes with the jingly bells and horns
that outnumbered the number of vehicles
on the vibrant road.

At night, in Oak Brook, I hear the sound of ambulance sirens-
another elderly lady has probably wandered loose
into the dark streets of our streetlamp-less neighborhood
again.
Back where I’m from I heard those same sirens
but on a police car
when a teenager from the orphanage
down at the end of the block by the dumpsters
had escaped.
Gunshots echoed through the air
and shouts resonate through the musty night air.
Put the gun down! Put the gun down!
Bang.

Which do I like better? Where would I rather be?
Where I’m from or where I am, where I ended up?
When asked this question
I can honestly answer
I really don’t know.