I am from the new granite sink, from Amol and the boiling pot of water for pierogi.
I am from the delicate lace curtains that previously adorned the walls of the living room.
I am from the koperek that grows in the garden where there could have been a pool, the “exotic” hibiscus trees that bloom in July.
I am from the Christmas Wigilias and slap-knee Polish comedies, from Ciocia Teresa and Wujek Irek and the entire rodzinka both here and back there.
I am from the frugal-yet-never-in-need with the necessities and lavish on the gifts so that maybe they will think, “we made it”.
From you are so smart! and she is going to do well said by complete strangers.
I am from the Hail Marys and Our Fathers said painfully in Polish on my knees as I wondered what I could be doing instead of being in church, the oh-des-weh-gohs and ah-mens transforming into you can leave now...after this next decade.
I'm from Holyoke by way of villages outside the USSR-turned-Ukrainian border, golumpki and barszcz, but nobody really likes the red kind anyway.
From the green thumbs that gave both Babcius a livelihood, the not-yet-Dziadzius who went too soon, taken by the very work that gave them life.
I am from the little square box, barely perceptible to those not looking for it, hidden away in my drawers, opened once a blue moon when it’s time to clean, because this is America.