from

I am from hemp sails at Plymouth Rock. I am carved from a stone statue standing proud in Massachusetts. I am from blue bloods and farmers. I am from rebel minutemen wielding muskets. I am from Solomon. The man who walked home from war to die in his wife’s arms.

 

I am from Peirce’s and Winn’s, Grant’s and Jolly’s.

 

I am from the ocean. I slithered out on my belly to find dry land. I have never stopped looking back. I am from a mermaid, a siren, a seagull. I am from a long line of beachcombers. I am missing myself when I am far from the coast. Perpetually landlocked within my own body.

 

I am from silver thimbles and thread collections wound on wooden spools. I am from the farmer’s daughter who married late and lived long. I am from petite grandmothers and exceptionally tall grandfathers.

 

I am from a hole in the condom. The baby girl, the tattletale, the perpetually worried child. I am from San Diego, although I remember it not. I am from far away families. I am from many people I never met but whom I resemble in many ways. I am from longings and missings.

 

I am from Napa valley, a safe suburban cul-de-sac of my childhood memory. Streetlights and neighborhood pools and dislocated shoulders.

 

I am from Jersey of all places. And The Wind In the Willows, fresh snowfall, and Emmett Otter’s Jug Band Christmas. I am from sledding and chapped lips and friends moving yet again. I am from shyness, awkwardness, and insecurities. I am from social acceptance and guilt and dysfunction.

 

I am from blueberry picking in Vermont. I am from snowmobile rides with my father and lodge sitting with my mother. I watch skiing from the sidelines. I am from snow angels and hot chocolate. I am from snowcapped men with ice beards. I am from magic in childhood.

 

I am from Virginia. I am from music halls, symphony conductors, folding chairs, and long black skirts. I am from the power of creation. I am from Stewart, who played saxophone sitting on the rock in a Nova Scotia river. I am from the music he gave me in my blood.

 

I am from a speckled conch shell that traveled across the sea from Scotland. I am from 400 acres in Yarmouth. I am from the stories I heard but never loved until I heard them no more. I am from sugar rations and bomb shelters. I am from farms and towns and cities.

 

I am from superstitions. I am from salt tossed over your shoulder, knocks on wood, ghosts, and rabbit rabbit rabbits.

 

I am from a cloud of smoke, a tipi flap, and a crackling woodstove. I am from a snowshoe hike up a Colorado mountain. I am from a rooftop patio under the stars. I am from sleep talkers, dreamers, and swimmers. I am from a Polaroid camera and a child named Precious.

 

I am from the water’s edge. Thick Texas mud under my nails and clinging to my skirt’s hem. I am from all laboring mothers everywhere.

 

I am from somewhere new everyday.

 

I am from uprooted trees. Transplanted before blooming. I am from swamps filled with cypress trees and knobby knees. Roots in water, moving and fluid. I am from lakes topped with lily pads. I am the optical illusion of roots. The child holding the balloon that so often slips free to float away to a new home. Never without tears.

 

I am from everywhere but here.