I’m from milk with every meal

And Mom’s famous chili.

I’m from long games of Monopoly

with The Beatles playing the background.

 

I’m from leftovers,

Disney movies,

and the vegetable garden in the backyard.

 

I’m from dirty hands and mud baths,

“April Fools” pranks and the Santa Monica Pier.

I’m from the little blue couch that sat in my room.

I’m from the funnies in the paper,

and the pumpkin carving potlucks on Harmony Lane.

 

I’m from antique lights

and many loud washing machines;

from our fluffy pink Dogwood Tree,

and those nine hour road trips with Norah Jones.

 

I’m from camping and canoeing,

Eggo waffles and fudge.

From “Practice piano!”

and “Drink your milk!”

 

I'm from Grandma Gretchen's last breath on the kitchen floor,

the smell of fresh cinnamon rolls in the oven,

the sound of sirens sending echos through the aching silence of her home. 

I'm from the understanding that her warm spirit was needed somewhere else. 

 

In our living room stood a big wooden shelf,

stacked high with pictures,

holding captured moments,

family memories,

within every page.