I am from a rooftop garden
That smell like fresh guavas
And hard, wired fences
Behind which lies a foggy skyline
A dreaming city

I am from a small, brown-red backyard shed
Tucked between rural green fields
Where two little girls defended the world from evil by
Laughing and swinging wildly on a rusted, fluorescent swing set

I am from a row of townhouses
Where no matter how late the return
Warm lights inside glow
Beckoning  

I am from strong rocks
Against which foamy, icy waves crash
Leaving behind grass
Soft to touch  
And hard to uproot

I am from eating overdone fried chicken
From short-lived patience
From a voicemail
That will always say
From Lucy, Tulu and Samah

From don’t eat that, it’s for the guests
And if you have to do it, do it, but I don’t want to hear about it.  

From too many whys
And not enough faith

I am from Dhaka, Bangladesh
From jostling crowds and hearing a million voices outside

I am from Limerick, Ireland.
From rustic houses and quaint parishes

I am from Wallingford, Pennsylvania
From suburbia and inane boredom

From the college-genius who crashed weddings on weekends,
The woman who is still unimpressed by sushi in Japan

I am from feeling sad if you do
But wanting to make you laugh anyway