I am from afternoon tea and gnoshies, from Stella d’Oro and salami on fresh Italian bread.
I am from the yellow house with the breezeway, the house with the wrought iron fence, the one with a library and the long driveway. I am from six moves before sixth grade and vacations spent with grandparents in Sullivan and on Long Island, exploring and practicing accents.
I am from the snake plant, the lily of the valley, from the absolutely necessary “dessout” before bed. I am from dinner at 6:30pm sharp and bad knees, from Adams and Manzo and DeLuca, from Momma and siblings all wiggling over good food and from Daddy picking lint up from the floor.
I am from no elbows on the table and save the doo-dahs, from movies and pizza on Christmas Eve. I am from palm fronds folded into crosses, from baby Jesus placed into the manger Christmas morning after a month of advent calendar anticipation.
I’m from Missouri and New York, from California, from forays into Texas and Minnesota. I’m from strofuli and pastina and pumpkin donuts, spaghetti sauce simmering all day long.
I am from those who think spiders can’t find their way back out of vacuums due to darkness, from Crazy 8 players, from those who think cranberries grow in the shape of the can, who can’t spell squirrel, who need naps after half a wine cooler.
I am from loud masses all talking at once, finishing each other’s sentences, from home all over the country and anywhere there’s family. I’m from long distance phone calls on holidays and passing the phone around, from divorce and arguing and laughing and loving. I am from broken and mended, hurt and healed, from life lived fully and embraced wholly.