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#seeingthroughdifferenteyes
I am from my grandmother,who snuck out of the house to smoke camel non-filtered I am from the middle of nowhere, not far from town. I am from the pine tree with a water hose tied on it, where I imagined I was Indiana Jones. I am from the woods, where the cicadas sang at night. I am from the kudzu that blanketed the trees and menaced the garden. I am from the apple trees in the front yard, whose fruit never turned red. I am from the middle of nowhere, not far from town. I am from my grandfather’s plaid pockets, where he would pull out suckers. I am from my father’s mustang that i crashed into the driveway. I am from my great-grandfather’s picture, proudly displayed on the wooden mantle. I am from my grandmother’s bible stories, in the back bedroom where she read every night. I am from the middle of nowhere, not far from town. I am from Highway 494, where the trees were leveled to build subdivisions. I am from the soft red clay and moist brown earth of the backyard. I am from the moonlight I could see from the top of my house late at night. I am from the sweltering heat and uncut grass in the front yard. I am from the middle of nowhere, not far from town. I am from the small cemetary past the corner store, where my grandfather lies next to my grandmother, and my father next to her. I am from Uptown New Orleans, where my daughter learns her A.B.C’s in the back bedroom where she prays every night I am from the brown bag from the Shell station that i fill with suckers, and sneak to her when her mom isn’t watching. I am from the picture of us dancing at a music festival, her on my shoulders, displayed proudly on the wooden mantle. I am not from from anywhere, in the middle of town
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May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 1:07 AM UTC
will-laird
Home
I am from my grandmother,who snuck out of the house to smoke camel non-filtered I am from the middle of nowhere, not far from town. I am from the pine tree with a water hose tied on it, where I imagined I was Indiana Jones. I am from the woods, where the cicadas sang at night. I am from the kudzu that blanketed the trees and menaced the garden. I am from the apple trees in the front yard, whose fruit never turned red. I am from the middle of nowhere, not far from town. I am from my grandfather’s plaid pockets, where he would pull out suckers. I am from my father’s mustang that i crashed into the driveway. I am from my great-grandfather’s picture, proudly displayed on the wooden mantle. I am from my grandmother’s bible stories, in the back bedroom where she read every night. I am from the middle of nowhere, not far from town. I am from Highway 494, where the trees were leveled to build subdivisions. I am from the soft red clay and moist brown earth of the backyard. I am from the moonlight I could see from the top of my house late at night. I am from the sweltering heat and uncut grass in the front yard. I am from the middle of nowhere, not far from town. I am from the small cemetary past the corner store, where my grandfather lies next to my grandmother, and my father next to her. I am from Uptown New Orleans, where my daughter learns her A.B.C’s in the back bedroom where she prays every night I am from the brown bag from the Shell station that i fill with suckers, and sneak to her when her mom isn’t watching. I am from the picture of us dancing at a music festival, her on my shoulders, displayed proudly on the wooden mantle. I am not from from anywhere, in the middle of town
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