I am from magnets,
      from countless hours on the road and gas station pit stops.
I am from the room of endless bright light.
(Blinding, glowing,
It looked like golden honey.)
I am from the pink roses
      outside my great grandparents’ front steps,
and the magnolia tree
      whose roots were planted the same day as my cousin’s.

I’m from the annual trips to the mountains in the fall and fearlessly traipsing through unknown woods
      with brothers and cousins
      from Lois and Jane and Retzy.
I’m from the rule-breakers
     and the heartbreakers,

from “Come inside!” to “Come outside!”
I’m from the cross that hangs in my grandpa’s study,
     made from the remnants of that dazzlingly bright room
     washed away one stormy August day.

I’m from Cajun roots with traces of Filippino,
      boudin and crawfish.
From the middle finger my grandpa lost
      to the garage door,
To my great grandma’s memories
      that locked themselves away.

Tucked away on the top shelf of my closet,
      underneath a layer of dust,
      are water stained faces,
      captured moments of the past.
And one of those faces is mine,
      another limb on the family tree,
      another face in the family pictures,
      another childhood documented.