I am from the blank canvas, that over time
grew into a myriad of colors, bright and dark.
I am from the water coursing beneath the bridge behind the beat-down picket fence,
like the very blood within my veins guided by the beating of my heart.
I am from the tall oak tree whose strong arms held the weathered, wooden swing
before age robbed it of its tyrant strength.

I am from the severed hands, strong-willed and wise
And boats that dared sail to corners set far from home
I am from the Williams’, I am from the Surette’s.

I am from the ones who were too stubborn to give up,
and those whose strength seemed immeasurable.

From the times when my spirits came crashing down with full force.
A mind battered, a head bowed, it was spoken courage that healed my wounds.
To the scars that remind me of the lessons I’ve had to learn, I hope to one day be
grateful for the bridges I have burned.

I am from He who gave his own, so that I could have it all.
I am from the sand that He traveled and the Lord’s Word that He spoke.
I am from the rolling hills of Ireland, and the skyscraping pines of Canada.
From the roppy pies at Christmas, to the angel blue eyes that I always confide in.
I am from my father’s strength and protection, to my mother’s undying love and devotion.
I am from a brother’s teachings, and his heart that always remains true.
I am from the worn out frames bearing the faint dust of time, which when wiped off reveal
the images of moments and loved ones that now only exist in memory and heart.
I am from these memories, the roots of who I am.