Where I’m From

I am from red bricks.

From Sony and Caribou Coffee.

I am from the crowded living room and the porch in the back that my dad built.

(sturdy, smooth, and never quite free of the comforting scent of sawdust).

I am from elegant pine trees,

Towering unreachable over my head as I played in the fallen leaves with my family of nine.

I am from sugar cookie decorating on Christmas morning and heated debates.

From Sheila Marie and Karen Marie.

I’m from the perfectionist and the hidden vulnerability.

From “Don’t be like me, go to college” and “you’re too young to play with the big kids”.

I’m from apprehensive confessions and sitting in the back pew because we could never make it on time.

I’m from Moon Hill and tea addictions and the easy spaghetti dinner.

From the uncle who rushed my aunt to the Eiffel Tower for an extravagant sunset proposal.

The brother who told a grandiose lie about a friend taking the candle because he couldn’t bear seeing disappointment reflected in my mother’s gaze.

Tucked away in the furthest corner of the garage, small boxes filled with smiles and a childhood long past.

Although scattered, the memories embedded in home videos and heartfelt updates of our daily lives keep my family connected and captivated by pleasant nostalgia.