I am from Grandma’s eyes

And red Russian blood

I am from the house with the white Pickett fence

the gate that never quite shut

But always felt right

I am from the rusty swing set far back in the woods

We never knew how it really got there

I am from across oceans to apt. 28 with the bright red door

Then back a thousand miles to the sugar maple leaves twinkling through my skylight

And the busy hum of New England

 

I am from sarcasm

I am from “get out of my room!” and “I’ll miss you”

“Are you coming back this year?”

I am from accents I have grown used to

At a dinner table on a different continent, or a house in the center of town

I am from hymn number 361 ‘Go In Peace’

I am from sweaty palms before auditions and races

And the lit up field, with two minutes before second half

I am from hysterical laughter at a joke we wont remember the next day

And taking pride in what I do and who I am.

 

I am from hazy afternoons by the lake

Early morning runs

And manhunt games at 10:30

I am from the smell of dove soap and fresh sheets

I am from the rush of scoring a goal

Or the chills of listening to playlists late at night

I am from the silence of the first snowfall, the hundredth plane ride,

The notes on a score, the smoke from a bonfire

I am from my own experience

Each moment slowly falling into place

I am from everything I know