I am from muddy boots by the door,
from horseshoes kicked aside,
from floors that knew the weight of work
before they ever knew rest.
I am from hay bales stacked crooked in the yard,
from tools left where they last mattered,
from toys half-buried in dirt,
from broken glass catching the sun
like it still had something to say.
I am from trees that stood as witnesses,
from long clotheslines stretched with patience,
from horse buggies rolling slow past open space,
from large vegetable gardens that fed more than mouths.
I am from Amish friends up the road,
where community didn’t need a name to exist.
I am from Poppop
James Michael Bruno,
the best man I ever looked up to,
from Carissa, my sister, steady and strong,
from Ashley, my sister, always present,
from Angela, my sister who passed,
whose name still lives in the quiet moments.
I am from Michele, my mom,
and Ron, my dad,
from love that showed itself in rules and reminders.
I am from
“Lickin’ lookin’ for a place to happen,”
from “If you can’t say nothin’ nice,
then don’t say anything at all,”
from “What happens here in the house
STAYS in the house,”
words that built walls,
and sometimes, shelter.
I am from Chicken al Bruno,
from homemade mac and cheese
that meant everyone was staying awhile.
I am from memories stored in a tote in the shed,
some I don’t want to see,
because photos don’t keep
what’s hidden behind the memories.
They don’t show the weight,
or the strength it took to carry it.
I am from what was broken
and what was fixed anyway.
From open land and open lessons.
From loss that shaped me,
and love that refused to leave.
I am from all of this
and from the future I am still building
with hands that remember
where they learned to work,
and a heart that knows
exactly where it’s from.