I am from antiques, from 99.4 percent pure, floating Ivory soap, creamed chicken and meatloaf.
I am from the cattails in a ceramic crock, ticking clocks and eventually a VCR and a microwave, from a plaid threadbare, carpeted, panel board basement, from Halloweens and Christmases and first days of school.
I am from the willow tree, the climbing tree, the crabapples at Mr. Perry’s.
I am from dogs and redhair, from William Bruce, from Scheulers and Schaffers.
I am from the boisterous and the sunburned.
From scoop and go.
I am from the guts of fish. Runaway, discarded, bartered for respite, vomited after hermitage, covered in the dust of the rabboni.
I'm from near the base of the thumb of our left hands, from fresh baked, made from scratch cinnamon rolls and hamburgers on the Weber.
From the Mothers’ Day Frisch’s, the breaking of balls and ridiculous short shorts with those stripes up the side.
I am from negatives, yellowing photographs, the fireproof box under mom and dad’s bed and that pocket change collector that sits on the dresser.