I am from organic yogurt, from Guterman thread and Berninas.
I am from the bungalow where I have forged roots, complete with too many zucchini and failing air conditioner.
I am from the wild strawberries, the rogue violets by ancient European graves.
I am from craftsmen and women who create with their hands, from Dice and Lourena and Hazel.
I am from split lips in winter and Cowboy singers,
From do unto others and turn off that television and make something.
I am from Presbyterian roots, broadened and defined by pain and loss. All that is left of me is a humanist glimmer of faith, quietly observing the changing seasons with my Son Who Should Be.
I'm from the Cottonwood prairie, from chicken soup (homemade noodles!), and sun-warmed tomatoes,
From the grandfather with verboten M&Ms in his pocket, the grandfather and his basement workshop.
I am from the box in the closet, urn on the mantle, frames and photographs on our hallway wall, and rocking chair that soothes the little ones to sleep.
