In Which I Write A Poem

I am from sidewalk chalk, from worlds constructed of cardboard boxes where dragons and princesses reside.

I am from the brick house with bay windows, the one where you sit in the backyard with Mom, sipping iced tea, watching the sun go down.

I am from the Redwoods, the Sequoias, the mountain streams along which I sit on a boulder and gaze into the depths, contemplating growing up and fear and uncertainty.

I am from Sunday potlucks, patriotism, and self-respect. From Kales and Beechers and Copelands and Daniels.

I am from the stubbornness which requires that I have the last word, and I am from the humility which makes me admit when my last word was the wrong one.

From "Be smarter than the...(insert whatever object was giving me a hard time)" to be clever and come up with a solution to a problem rather than whining about it, and from the freedom felt when I finally got it through my head that people could only control my feelings if I allowed them to.

I am from the Lord who made me.

I'm from Mississippi and Europe, sweet potato souffle and Key Lime pie.

From the time my grandfather took me to the popcorn shop and bought me a whole big bag of blueberry flavored popcorn just for me, and from the time I thought back on that memory when I was told he had gone on to heaven.

I am from musty photo albums that smell of blueberry popcorn, from mountain air scented with moist earth and the color of lightning bugs. I am from the spiraling, the turning, the constant motion as the second-hand ticks by on my wooden clock.

I am from the sound of my son's voice as he calls "Mommy! Come play with me!" So I shall stop writing now.

(I found the template for this poem over here after reading one over at Adventures in Babywearing. Give it a try yourself, you'll be surprised at the memories that come to you!)