Where I am from ...

This little writing exercise comes via the lovely and amazing 8 Hours


I am from chipped coffee cup hidden behind trinkets of Happy Meals on a lower shelf.

I am from seaweed, slick and tangled around your ankles.

I am from the red barn, old and meandering, standing despite the ravage
of time.

I am from the spiky cactus dahlias, morning glories and errant tulips in the grass.

I am from self consternation and indecision, from Zita of the pots and pans and genius mothers and others. I am famine fed.

I am from the nomads who took root in the working class.

From ghost stories and secrets and lies that showed the soft underbelly of truth.

I am from nothing and everything. Little girls with white dresses and
veils standing in a straight line waiting for a host.

I'm from the collar city and before that the land that time forgot. I am lamb shanks and potatoes, plentyful and bland; sweet milks and sour creams.

I am from the carnage of worry, the horse that helped her crack her head open and a momentary lapse of memory when she came to consciousness again. I am a frown of neverending anxiety.

I am from cardboard boxes and reused envelopes with stamps peeling off. I am lost and found and lost again.


If you try it, please let me know, I'd love to learn about where you are from.