Where I am from.

I am from a piece of paper.

From Elektra Records and Jiffy cornbread.

I am from a hide away in a Maple tree that scraped the clouds. Whimsical, strong, it tasted like adventures.

I am from the stars, the trees–whose whispers always seemed ambiguously familiar to me.

I’m from the 3 and 4 finger waves and book worms. From Zoila, Bill, and Melissa.

I’m from the sing-everything-you-say and sarcastic dripped one liners. From, “never say you’re sorry unless you mean it,” and “you  must wear your shoes while riding your bike.”

I’m from Christmas’ and Easters celebrated without Jesus but with so much family love.

From summer nights and fireflies that feel more right than any church song ever could.

I’m from California sunrises and Spanish speaking tongues.

Quesadilla’s and pop.

From the Maple tree haven I watched my father cut down from my window when it finally died. The break in his heart for my dreaming place’s demise.

On an old cabinet in old albums resides my father’s favorite picture of my mother’s laughing 20-something face.

I am from James and Carly, books and laughter, and imperfections that fill up the cracks in my soul. Leaving me utterly and completely whole.


One thought on “Where I am from.

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