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I am from homemade pizza.
From Thanksgiving banquets and rumbling, roaring, rolling voices of celebration.
I am from skinning my knees and dozens and dozens of bug bites
(all of which have littered my skin with scars).
From tall trees that sway in the wind and garden beds, invaded by bunnies.
I am from the balloon released to open sky on the anniversary of my grandmother’s death.
From the pain her passing brought, and how losing my dog hurt too.
I am from Turner and Hape and Fox,
the eyes of the first girl I ever kissed,
and the friends who never left.
I am from Harry Potter and Percy Jackson.
From crude notebooks of a small kid’s best stories and from poetry, sloppy and undefined, dripping from my fingertips.
I am from choir and years of music. Hands strumming, my father plays bass.
My brother has a guitar, I own a keyboard.
I am from I love you! and Be quiet! and I'm sorry.
I am from encouragement from insults and pain, too.
I am from the shallow plastic pool that’s now cracked from play and overuse.
I am from generations of thinkers and farmers. From people who love me and those who don’t.
I am from the choices and changes of a story I'm still writing.
Where I’m From