I am from a bunk bed shared with 2 sisters, from cornbread in milk, and biscuits with molasses eaten with weak hot tea.
I am from the country, cows across the road, buggy summer nights and the hum of the fan in the window.
I am from the cherry tree, the dogwood, the pink and white azaleas bursting forth each year. I am from earthworms and lightning bugs as friends.
I am from Sunday dinner at Grammy's, from Monopoly played as quietly as we could and the old Royal typewriter with its letters on long metal arms, from That Room We Could Never Go Into and the front porch glider.
I am from the silence, and no crying or laughing, from no talking during the evening news.
I am from the rural mountains of Maine, from outhouses and bathing in streams, and sleepovers with cousins.
I'm from Charlotte, NC and Mobile, Alabama, from sweet iced tea and practicality so rigid it sang when plucked.
I'm from a Methodist Church that we never talked about, from Jesus Loves Me and the youth choir, from revivals where I fell in love with God.
From two sisters, and Barbies, and a lavender room with lavender pillows, curtains and bed shams. From my sister and I making our oldest sister miserable, hiding under the bed to surprise her, from our old playhouse built by my father's hand.
I am from one old picture album, pages and pictures falling out, from stories told with laughter until we catch each others' eyes, from shared understanding of what was.