I am from built-in bookcases and antique-filled rooms.
From pink popcorn bricks, red ropes, foggy summer mornings.
I am from calla lilies with soft satin petals, sour grass and yellow flowers. From daisy chains constructed on grammar school lawns, eucalyptus trees and Ramona the Brave.
I am from an upholsterer turned truck driver, a homemaker turned bookkeeper. From hair rollers, scarves, Pall Malls and Seagram’s.
I’m from the red Datsun hatchback and the faint smell of cigarettes, my mother’s beautiful voice singing along to top 40.
I’m from Crosby Stills Nash and Young played on repeat. From “a very very very fine house” but only one cat in the yard whose name was Sally.
I am from Creature Features on Fridays and Dad’s Bisquick pancakes on Saturday only if I had friends sleep over. Or if it was my birthday.
I’m from the house on Oakes Boulevard where the steps seemed so tall and across the street lived someone who I’ll never forget, but not in a good way.
I’m from the house on Marlow Drive with the long front yard. Kick the can, doorbell ditch, Huffy bicycles strewn about.
I am from the house on Roxbury where sadness came to reside. The house I lived in when my mother died. I was just 15 years old. Forever changed.
I am from Grandma Ella teaching me piano, sharing sips of her Budweiser poured into a glass. “Gina you’re growing too fast,” she’d say. And always a reminder to “dress like a lady.” From Grandmother Doris who was very distant and strange.
I’m from camping in the Sierras under the stars, horseback rides, raging rivers and beautiful meadows.
I am from heartbreak, hope, good intentions, forgiveness. A unique, colorful quilt created from the patchwork of life experiences.