I am from rubber soles squeaking on wooden floors
from lined notebooks and snow days three inches deep.
I am from floral quilts and the revving of engines
lake days, cake days, for goodness’ sake days.
I am from the weaving grapevine,
the Bradford Pear
in my grandmother’s backyard
(creaking, cracking, falling, dead).

I’m from crooked bangs and pencil dust,
from green eyes centered on the floor.
I’m from first-hand-up in the very front row
and the scent of musty libraries
from Look Alive! and Are You Alright?!
I’m from Father-Son-Holy-Spirit
and etched gold crucifixes,
from stained glass and
stern glances across
crowded pews.
I’m from rollercoaster rides and the neighbourhood pool
(over chlorinated, over rated, tasting of
sunscreen and whitewashed summers)
burgers and fries at all hours of the day.
From the husband my father’s mother lost
to his own selfishness,
the six boys Raised Right but still in
varying states of decay.

My horizons are set on landscape,
portrait placed in my sealed memory box.
Maps littered with push-pins,
photos cluttered with noise,
a family so long and wide it can be suffocating.
I am from flowering branches,
from making something out of nothing --
a mural of swirling trials and tribulations
painted upon my beating heart.
I am from stars nestled in my ribcage and
forgiveness running through my veins,
inching my way up the family tree.