I wish I was from Mr. and Mrs. Hatchett,
where I knew my brothers.
I wish I was from yearly camping trips
with bubbly golden marshmallows
and stinging red mosquito bites.
The bites will fade but the memories will bring back a smile.
I wish I was from close cousins causing chaos at Christmas.
But I need to stop wishing.

I am from summers at the red house in a hill, at Nana’s.
I am from the garden, the dirt, and the weeds,
mom irritated with the brown spots ingrained into my pants.
I am from the first sight of white crystals,
waking up to a diamond covered world.
From, “You are my sunshine.” and “I never thought it was a bad little tree.”
(Maybe it just needs a little love).

I am from St. Maximilian Kolbe.
From small pieces of bread and grape juice.
I am from Madison, garden fresh potatoes and green beans.
I may wish I was from a Mr. and Mrs. Hatchett
But I am from an irreplaceable, loving
Mom, Nana, and Papa.