I am from a spool of thread, from Singer and the park by the river.
I am from the blue house with the white trim and a deep porch, from the tulips sprouting in the pot by the carport.
I am from the carnations, the lilies of the valley growing in the shade of my childhood home.
I am from biscuits and gravy on weekend mornings and from willingness to jump into anything, from Lisa and Justice and Opal, stubborn and funny and naive enough to hold onto a sense of wonder.
I am from high tech additictions and cheesy movies and television.
From ugly and fat and a sunbonnet working in the garden.
I am from the Penticostal church too small to interest the young, too narrow in vision to serve the needs of the elderly, and too poor to support anyone else.
I'm from the fringe of a hillbilly mountain, beans and dumplings on Sundays.
From the grandmother whose voice raised so rarely her own daughter never recalled a harsh word, the non-driver who always wore a smile, and the uncle who beat cousins because he could.
I am from the musty boxes buried in the middle of someone else's world, lost to mine.