I am from my father’s warm cooking,
From my mom and grandma’s baking.
I am from the soggy, overdone noodles, that, though disgusting,
I was proud of because I made them myself.

I am from lemonade stands with my sister,
Keeping careful watch to see that she didn’t run into the street.
I am from drinking most of our product that we were supposed to be selling,
And making my mother pay twenty-five cents to do the same.

I am from lights on my face as I slipped into the life of another person,
proudly singing a song.
I am from “break a leg,” and “you can do it.”
I am from dancing badly and the music that compelled me to do so.

I am from Emergency Room trips,
From falling and stumbling and crashing into things.
I am from the bonfires at the camp I hated
(sparkly, mesmerizing, didn’t feel as nice as it looked)

I am from Ernie and Bert’s pointless arguments,
From my old fears of
Cookie Monster,
and crying when he came on the television.

I am from June and Mortimer’s branch.
From the crazy heritage from my dad,
and the Native American woman and the English man
who are my great-great-great-great grandparents.





I am from the chemotherapy and radiation that
didn’t work,
and crying when I heard that the boy
I had never met had died.

I am from Milo and the Phantom Tollbooth,
From the adventures that I enjoyed with Harry, Hermione, and Ron.
I am from the books that I read at a very young age
that made me love the letters on the pages.

I have boxes, filled with memories.
A birth certificate,
shoes that barely fit two of my fingers.

I am from the stories that were told,
and the unwritten tales
yet to come