I am from a desk,

from Oreos and Rice Krispies stashed away in the cabinets for a special day.

I am from the tall white house on Barrets Drive

settled by an endless green field

filled with laughter and giggles from running children.

It contains memories of scraped knees and stinging bug bites.

I am from the forest where no one dares to go,

filled with mischievous rabbits and blackberry bushes.

I’m from the Christmas’ spent together huddled around a fire, drinking hot chocolate,

admiring the special blue eyes I was gifted with from my grandmother.

From aunt Lori’s hugs and aunt Mica’s crochet dresses made especially for me.

I’m from Papa’s harrowing stories told at dinner and Dad’s loud voice echoing through the house

from “If you can’t find it put your right hand out”

and the lie of “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me”.

I’m from the freedom and open-mindedness of doing whatever I want on Sundays.

From sleeping in well past 8 and playing outside with friends.

I’m from the hot south where we spent weekends at the beach

with jasmine rice and steak drizzled in soy sauce.

From my dad who traveled the world and brought back foreign gifts for us

and my mom who was stubborn like her Pa.

The old scrapbooks under the desk in the office holds memories of the past

from a family vacation to birthdays

a story is told through the black and white pictures, through the smiles and frowns,

through the laughs and giggles preserved in time

a story of the past is told line by line for future generations to share and treasure.