Where I’m From

I got this from my best friend, Finn, who got it from someone else and so on down the line all the way to the original author, George Ella Lyon. If you want to try it, you can get the template here.

I am from ice-cold, mostly-fat milk, from Vicks Vapor Rub and rain pelting on the roof.

I am from the brown house at the bottom of the hill that we’d roll down with joyful abandonment.

I am from Peonies and dirt, the snap peas, the weeping willow and the Lilacs on the breeze.

I am from Polish Christmas carols and self-righteousness, from Hilda and Elsa, Ebba and Marie and Carole.

I am from the quick tempers and the open, loving arms.

From go play in the street, your face will freeze like that and wait ’till your Dad gets home.

I am from hard backed pews and hard kneelers, kneeling hard and, sometimes, hardly kneeling.

I’m from the mini apple, Ireland, Sweden and Germany, Swedish meatballs and split-pea ham and cabbage soup.

From the unrelenting womb of my mother, that refused to give me up, the bed where my Dad lay me next to pennies spelling my name and the pride of them both.

I am from cosmetology and anthropology and beautiful, homemade, velvet-lined, mahogany boxes that serve as beloved pets’ final resting places.

I am from boxes and books, stored and rescued from storage, here, there and everywhere.

I am from more than and less than all that. I am me, so much more than I ever thought I’d be.