I am from out-of-the-notebook poetry, happy and sad.
From broken Luna ukuleles and loud music.
I am from the constant but happy silences, echoing into the night.
I am from the mighty weeping willow trees, the lilac flowers,
shining bright, lavender purple in the sun.
I am from horror film family nights,
And sad brown eyes. From my sister’s encouraging words.
From the McJunkins to the Campbells.
I am from the frequent traveling, and to never
settle down, not even for a moment’s breath.
From never keeping secrets, but to always keep,
my poker face.
I am from reading aloud scary stories,
and our simultaneous laughter and fear.
I am from the high Montana land,
From Ireland’s rolling, green plains.
I am from Boston cream pie, made special,
just for me.
From the telling of my grandfather’s war stories,
of the pain and obligations, and the smiles
once shared by the love of my mother’s past.
I am from the sun room, filled,
with captured smiles and faces, all
showing the simple yet unspoken love for all others.
I am from such honorable afflictions.
From the glowing happiness of the dark,
a weeping willow tree, to stand alone forever,
but to never quite feel alone.