I am from notebooks
From the keys of pianos and the pages of books
I am from the cool tile floors on the soles of my feet
and my warm soft bed, wrapped up like a cocoon
I am from homemade chocolate chip cookies and the gooey slick feel of pumpkin guts

cold and slimy in my hands
I am from bubbly apple juice on New Years and arguments about stupid things,
that no one wins
From Karen, my perfect mommy and David, my loving dad
From Criss-Cross-Apple-Sauce-Indian-Style and You’re-A-Bull-in-a-China-Shop
From hard-headedness and defiance that never sleeps
I am from self-inflicted stupidity and intelligence,
somewhere deep down inside my brain
I am from scars that I don’t remember getting

And messes, that I don’t remember making
I’m from the silver cross ring I wear like a wedding band
I’m from England, Germany, Ireland, and so many other places
From the time I fell at Gully Park when I was three, and bowed my arm right down the middle
and didn’t ever cry
I am from the room full of art me and my siblings created
And the hallways adorned with photos

all of them of us, throughout the years
Yes,
I know exactly where I’m from
But as for where I’m going…

I’ll find that out when I get there.