Where I'm From
by Ms. Casassa
I'm from the rambling old white house nestled in the thick woods.
From the grassy fields that spread out like a blanket from my back steps
and the bright yellow forsythia bush blooming outside the kitchen window.
I'm from the bountiful harvest of corn and juicy tomatoes in the garden out back.
I'm from homemade wheat bread cut in thick slices
slathered with peanut butter that sloshes out of the jar.
I'm from cold pizza for lunch Mondays
and warm gooey chocolate chips cooling on the counter.
I'm from the hallways and stairs lined with books,
the creaky step near the bathroom
and the strong smell of paint from my mother's studio.
I'm from the loud and rowdy discussions around the kitchen table
and the spilt milk, tears and yelling that always followed.
I'm from the charred ruins of our old house,
sifting through the ashes, trying to salvage something
from the fire.
I'm from off tune folk songs on long car rides
and my father's booming voice as he sings the hymns.
I'm from my grandparents, falling madly in love on a Florida beach
and their luncheonette in New York, with the long counter
and spinning chrome stools.
I'm from interrupters and drama, and comfortable chaos,
from "I love you," and "don't be disapointed if it doesn't happen."
I'm from the confusion and craziness as we grab our schoolbags,
dressed in matching uniforms and navy Mary Janes, marching
up the hill to school.
I'm from all those memories,
deeply rooted, fixing me to a place,
reminding me always of who I am.
