I am from daydreams,
from roast beef Sundays,
and bichon frises who sniff for crumbs.
I am from swinging in the park Dad helped to build,
from walking in the back paths and yelling at the geese.
I am from sitting atop the coach’s shoulders,
from grasshopper and “do great things."

I am from home videos with epic battles and dramatic deaths,
from my nose buried in a book,
and drinking in Tamora’s words.
I’m from spending hours in the studio with its wall of mirrors
and experts spilling out corrections and wisdom.
I am from Big Red, and Little Black A Pony,
and from the chicken place.

I am from driving with my feet,
from making dinner,
and playing Sly Cooper.
I am from being too young to understand, from being too young to know what to say,
and to have known them well.
I’m from crying because I didn’t know that her ghostly figure would be my last memory of her.

I am from the teacher who shed a tear and believed,
from keeping secrets,
and leaving it all behind.
I’m from drowsy morns, grumpy afternoons, and engaging evenings.
I am from a head full of photos,
lost memories,
and dreams.
I am from a heart with experience,
in sorrow and joy,
that holds me together,
and keeps everything else.