I am from Cambridge Drive.
A ranch white house with orange shutters.
A house built for a family of four but we cram six and a dog.

But that is not where I am from…
I am from the hours I’ve spent hammocking with my orange and gray eno at Nashotah Park on Sunday afternoons.
I am from Friday nights I have willingly given up to spend in the gym because there is no place I’d rather be.
From being told “hydrate or die” thousands of times, feeling like my blue 32 oz CamelBak water bottle is an extension of my arm.

I am from summers spent at Six Flags,
from the drop in my stomach from the feel of going down the Goliath.
I am from an indigo Ironman watch I wear on my right wrist twenty four-seven.
From baggy sweatshirts and an oversized sock collection.

I am from the people I surround myself with, chosen carefully and cautiously because I once was from people I trusted, but I clearly shouldn’t have.
I am from the colored walls of my house, when my mom got “bored” and decided our kitchen needed to be green.
From my spontaneous need to catch the last minutes of a sunset as badly as I want to breathe. Like mother, like daughter.

But after all, I am from Cambridge Drive.