Where I’m From

I am from pillows,

whose comforts I have never rejected.

I’m from DOS Operating System, and from those adorable little blue and green critters who died by the thousands over many years, despite my greatest efforts—Lemmings.

 

I’m from the fireplace that divides an entire wall of windows,

and the amethyst rocks I kept in my closet.

I’m from reading The Night Before Christmas on that very night each year,

And I’m from our family’s noble heritage of late-onset arthritis,

from Susan and the Olivers.

 

I am from my Grampa’s anecdotes,

clearly exaggerated but you’d be hard pressed to say exactly where.

I am from Tulsa, the city next to “Unbroken Arrow” before the arrow got broken,

And I’m from “your eyes are gonna get stuck that way.”

 

I’m from the confusing wiggliness of nature,

to which I owe my life and to which I will return.

 

I’m from the Lone Star State,

from my Grampa’s divinity and my Great Aunt Barbara’s Coca-Cola cake.

And from the several car crashes my Grampa narrowly avoided (allegedly),

and the pregnancy complications my mother nearly had, but didn’t.

 

Finally, I am from the hallway of big framed photos,

featuring distinguished cousins, and uncles, and ancestors

whose names I think I probably ought to know.

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