I’m from monster cookies and peanut butter frosting,
From colorfully magic strawberry cake drawings,
I’m from vanilla and chlorine, smells so close when I roam.
And the dark nights in spring when the air smells like home.

I’m from B flats and D sharps,
And roads to get lost on.
I’m from dump 'til it looks good,
And falling into holes at dawn.

From the youngest Tsar's daughter,
A shaded umbrella and a bright floodlight.
Determining how dark or light the water,
Rather than things surely written at midnight.

I’m from hidden passages not quite to brag.
I’m from tennis and soccer to capture the flag.
From a long line of teachers,
Who sat in the bleachers, alone.

There’s a box in my closet,
like the ones written in stone.
Full of red lettered memories,
Of the me that’s now gone.