I am from Pikachu and 8-bit music,
hands rubbed raw from the constant pressing of buttons,
sleepless nights filled with muffled laughter
as I became the Champion.
I am from glistening wrapping paper
reflecting the soft glow of tree lights
promising magic, excitement,
echoed in the faces around me.
I am from the tall people,
my brothers, my parents,
peering up at them, listening intently,
molding a mirror from flesh.
I am from shunning fiction in search of the truth
among pages upon crisp pages
of those books the other kids hated
because they didn’t -- or didn’t try to -- understand.
I’m from the short, twisted crabapple tree,
raining fragrant pink blossoms in the spring
From scraped knees, stinging bark in my eyes
hoping to climb my way to my brothers.
I’m from straining on tiptoes to see the cool confections
just out of reach behind the Dairy Bar counter,
rejecting help from those more able
because I know I can do it too.
I’m from those broken and cracked stones lining the driveway
the swaying dance just to balance on them,
a hop, skip, and a jump
and accidentally tumbling to the earth.
I am from gazes holding reverent awe,
some concealing jabbing envy,
bolstering my pride with the mantra,
“You are special. You are different.”
I am from a world turned into my personal oyster
With promises of delicate pearls in the future
But I’ve never been fond of that briny tang
And the stench is greater than imagined.