I am from glowing, late night campfires, from Coppertone sunscreen and colorful thread bracelets that rested across my thin wrists.

I am from the winding pavement of Riford Road, but that home isn’t what made me. I was made by the ceaseless games of capture the flag and the smoky haze of fireworks on the 4th of July, the sleepless slumber parties and the heart shaped waffles that followed the next morning.  

I am from the beaches of Lake Michigan and the sand that sparkles like millions of jewels in the sun. With our sticky hands covered in chocolate ice cream and the melodic cadence of waves crashing into shore, erasing our names that we wrote in the sand with our chubby fingers.

I am from ultra competitive poolside games of Uno, and generations of people who either can’t say no or refuse to say yes. From Betsy and the black and white pictures that cover the walls of her home to her age-old family recipe for chocolate chip cookies. From Cullen’s bookshelf that towers over even the tallest of men, each novel packed next to each other like a can of sardines. From Jack, who’s childhood torment turned me into the person I am today, a little bit tougher and a little bit stronger.

I am from the family reunions which are less of a reunion and more of a debate, every one of us desperately trying to speak the last word. From the tough, stone cold stubbornness that each of us possess like a small voice in the back of our minds egging us on.

From mantras of “It could be worse” and the “It will always get betters.”

I am from sugary cinnamon buns on Christmas morning, muddled by the laughter of all my cousins and the cheesy carols playing over the radio.

I'm from the quaint, colorful streets of Charlevoix and the shops full of salt water taffy and their wax paper wrappers that litter the ground. A melting *** of freckled Scots and dark-haired Dutchman, all with the same wide, toothy grin. From the gooey gobs of marshmallow that stain our hands late at night, mixing with a crackling fire and waves slamming against the shore, the stars above us gleaming even brighter than the light radiating from our smiles.

From jumping into ice cold swimming pools in the middle of October, my brother by my side. With our skin freckled with goosebumps and our bones chilled to the core, we splashed and laughed until our bodies were numb and our parents forced us to get out. From the lazy summer afternoons that turned into starry nights. From jumping shoulder to shoulder into the deep rivers of Montana, our laughs suffocated by the frigid water as we ricocheted downwards.

I am from the small cardboard box sitting on the musty floor of our basement, teeming with memories captured at the other end of a  camera. Sepia pictures of my grandmother when she was no more than three years old with her white parka and oil black hair, looking into the lens like she was seeing the entire world. Photographs of my mother at the same age as me, her eyes overflowing with optimism and a smile made of gold, all too similar to my own.

Life, as we understand it, could just be another one of our fickle imaginations
Every day is a new fantasy
We are running around in circles concentric;
Making us feel vulnerable and asking ourselves whether we are eccentric
With each passing experience, we make the circles grow bigger,
But are we growing, who's to know?
Maybe we are and who's to blame us,
After all, life is all about trying to be a better part of our selves
At the core of these circles, we lie and we never try to forget
Who we were during the part of the whole process.

Even if we did figure it all out, who we were supposed to be;
Never fearing about the fall-out and remembering our need to be free,
Even if we did stutter to make the best of it,
Did we ever try to feel like a complete part of it?

Who are you chasing?
Is it a part of you that you left behind or just another one of your own created versions?
At the centre of it all, we're still the same person
Who we were and we never tried to escape it, all we did was just reshape it.

We're running in tails of who we wanted to be
Never realizing how much we want to be the one we were supposed to be
But who are we supposed to be?
What's the cost of happiness we ask,
Is it drowning into your problems or giving life a way to seep through you?

Every tangent is different, every experience will take you away from your circle,
to make you feel something more
But that might not be the only way to grow, but it surely will be the right one
They say 'go with the flow' without ever telling the real truth,
Go with the flow as long as you don't crash and burn.

Chaos is everywhere, within you and without you
In chaos there's meaning, there's truth
It's inevitable but so are you
Each chaos is your tangent, maybe the aftermath is not the complete you,
It won't matter though as long as you take the exit
And get back to where you were before.

At the end when the dust settles, you're still your self
Your version who thought he was better than your previous self,
It was harmonious knowing what you know now
Even if you found yourself and how,
Knowing you'll never go back to being the same person you were,
before life consumed you and you became the paranoia that only you know.

You are still the centre of your creations,
Raking chaos in your way of finding a meaning.
Trying not to lose yourself along the way,
Before you fade away.

I’ve kindled my body back into the earth. She stretched her arms wide and embraced me tenderly. I have time to tend to my garden again and I’ve seen what it really means to bloom. Vulnerability, once cataclysmic to the garden, became the set of seeds that were worth waiting for. Welcomed by the soil, the sky and the clouds, my flowers and my fruits grow in abundance.

I'm sorry, Mom
The squirrel got the bowl of nuts.
I know you told me to watch.
To keep watch.
But how can it be the puppy
with the black tips
has turned all grey?
How can it be?
She smelled like milk,
now she smells like vet
and clean and dead.
And the brothers,
they were toothy and twelve
and now, somehow, they're men, Mom?
And me?  What about me?
How can it be these legs of mine
sprouted long ago,
and there are muscles now,
beneath the round?
So what I'm saying is,
I must have looked away
Missed a moment (or was it 16 years?)
And this is why
the squirrel has chewed
this tea-stained memory.

I'll say I looked away,
since even that feels nicer
than admitting it all happened,
that the squirrel stole and years stole more,
all while I was watching.

You’re pale year-round,
though you have a new warmness beneath it.
With complete faith in the universe,
You are growing beautifully.

My skin crawls in your presence now.
This aversion is painfully present,
deep-seated, inexorable.
My antipathy
I feel for you is
     pushing
back.

Grinding away the
rind of my rib-cage,
I will not let the disease reach my
organs.
My fragile lungs
my tender heart.

The veil of insects and filth
lifted
upon realization that it is time for me to go.
Weaponizing insect repellent
for the pursuit of freedom.