I am From

Totally ripped off HDL. I thought her poem was beautiful, and it wasn't even personal to me.

I am From: by Vajana

I am from orange-colored Trimline phones, from Marboloros and Handee Wipes.
I am from the old, brown house on the hill with the screened-in backporch and ripe tomatoes in the garden, where the doors were never locked and the color once was green.
I am from the rhubarb, the lilacs, the honeysuckle bush.
I am from camping in the summer, and trivia nights and baseball games, from Mildred and Sally, Davidson and Wessel.
I am from clean houses and cluttered basements.
From playing it by ear and because I said so.
I am from Catholics and Protestants, from baptisms and confirmations, from uniforms and strict rules, from guilt for eating a hamburger on a Friday.
I'm from Illinois, Germany, Ireland and America, from dad's popped popcorn to mom's chocolate pudding with the layer on top.
From the man who cries at Field of Dreams, the woman who still longs for Hawaiian sunsets, the brother that thought he'd become Indiana Jones, from grandmothers who smelled like Estee Lauder and baked pies especially for me, and a grandpa who loved his Burmuda shorts, and one I never got to meet.
I am from high closets I can never reach, from a top drawer of an antique dresser, from memories staring back at me now.