Where I'm From

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is my history.

Submitted: August 30, 2016

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Submitted: August 30, 2016

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A A A


Where I’m From

 

I am from bookmarks, souvenirs from worlds I have travelled and explored. It is only swallowed in the warmth of my comforter, the crook of my neck settled into a soft pillow, that I can remove my treasure. My portal into fictional worlds. Each small rectangle guards memories of a foreign book store I bought it from, or a school floor it laid, begging me to pick it up. Each slip of my gold rests in a modest home for its value on my nightstand.

 

I am from Nerf bullets whistling through the air, karaoke ringing in my ears, and the baby’s laugh carving a path through lands of silence. I am from enjoying dress-up and “Take cover!” as I fight for the shower first; the pleasure of as much warm water as I like. The constant sounds of people laughing and preparing for what comes next makes my house a home. Taking the blame, fiery opinions in my mind, and patience running thin as a rubber band ready to snap are the terrors of being the oldest, while reading to innocent little girls and tucking in obedient yet lionous little boys equal the contentment of alone time. Alone time with Dad, taking a walk through the dare devil attempts and 80’s music of his childhood. Alone time with Mom, curling under heavy blankets to watch the History Channel and gain well-needed advice. Flexibility of time and love is the roots of my family’s home.

 

I am from infinite hours on a sparkling lake, the water spraying from the boat dampening my hair. Getting blown off a tube from a hard wave, but squirming right back on to be jostled once more, and not caring about the rashes, burns, or tingling fingers from holding on. The words “put your life jacket back on” sting my ears and yet warm my heart. Watching the bright oranges, fiery reds, and mellow yellows sink from the clouds, ending my fun filled day, and imprinting new memories into my soul.

 

I am from the savory aroma of sausage casserole cooking on Christmas morning, and the sweet scent of cinnamon roll glaze drenching the actual dough. My Dad’s favorite breakfast has become mine over the years with creamy cheese and sauce softening baked bread, countering the spice of sausage and mushrooms. Occasionally, a burst of flavor hits your tongue—a red or green bell pepper sporadically placed in the sauce. I learn skills for life with my caring mother when we bake cinnamon rolls together. A pinch of this or that for the filling, so tasty it melts your taste buds with sugar and cinnamon. The poofy dough is slowly given solitary substance as the rolling pin mesmerizingly works back and forth, back and forth. Then, many hours later, after these delicacies are baked, we sit waiting on the top stair. Waiting, staring, anticipating in our new pajamas from the night before. After a tantalizing wait of 10 minutes, my parents strut through the white wood door that holds their bedroom to see if Santa came.

 

I am from bearing Plans A, B, C, D, E, and sometimes F. These multiple changes are often for service, and very rarely for ourselves. From weeding in the wet, dark soil to baking crumbly yellow cornbread for another, we’ve got it covered. Yummy treats—warm cookies, spice cake, or dainty cupcakes are always given to friends “just because”. The dark green, leafy foliage regularly rolls by as I sit in the refines of a car, going to scour the LDS church of grime or help a new friend move into our great city.

 

I am from “work hard”. From the time when I idled away with my silver pieces: my Disney princess dolls in a tidy, shelved playroom with other gems, to now, when the air is so thick with responsibility my eyes sting. I have been unceasingly called upon to stay the course. There have been many times fixed in front of supreme, everlasting amounts of toys to be chosen and cherished, loved and clutched with faith in safety. I stood in Toys R Us, indecisive yet proud of my meager sum in a small Target purse with paisley designs. I have always been taught to save, for one nickel of good means more than $1,000,000 of evil. Working hard to achieve my goals is a life skill I shall always remember, from completing the old, steep neighborhood hill on my old, pink, Mongoose bike, causing my hair to dance behind me, to the relieving feeling of 100% on a S.S. test after sinking into our reddish brown couch dusks before. I study for seemingly hours on end in Old Navy sweatpants and hair wrestled into a bun, for pesky wisps of hair entering into my spectacle is not welcome.

 

I am from the rugged Rocky Mountains and dry desert. I am from pioneering thousands of miles to the west, having trodden through marsh, grass, sand, and mountain soil. I am from heavy losses and endurance. Faith wreaks my soul and runs in my blood. Fresh garden smells of squash, peppers, and corn radiate through thoughts of my grandparents’ home. Sounds of cousins young and old making merry through games of tag and make-believe on the aged swing set in the ample, sunny backyard with an overlooking deck sustains my heart. I am from windy days and blue skies.

 

I am from mispronunciation of words, and continuous teasing. I am from ay-ROE-ghant instead of arrogant, ex-ACK-TIC-ly in place of exactly, and once “pacific”, when correctly said it is “specific”. My dad never ceases to tease me about the one starry night walking in humid temperatures past a Chipotle restaurant. I brooded in my mind over the pronunciation, and blurted “Chip-oh-tel”. My family’s brisk pace to the car in a dimly lit parking lot slowed to a leisurely stroll as laughter filled the noiseless scene. Another story never forgotten of one particular day burns my mind as I recall it with a slight bittersweet taste. My parents have always loved to see my victory, even in meticulously placing that last gorgeous boot in place in my mother’s closet. Several folks would call that O.C.D., including my parents. One day I got so fed up with the comments that I shouted, “Stop calling me A.B.C.!” It is feasible that I will never live it down.

 

I am from a faded blue Rubbermaid art box that sits in my closet. Countless, colorful worksheets and 100% Social Studies tests hold in remembrance studying hard, while ridiculous conversation and spreading a rainbow on paper built everlasting friendships. Certificates, shiny medals, and silky ribbons remind me of divine victories in Cross Country, Field Day, AR Programs, talent shows, and that one Tinkerbell Halloween costume that earned me serious street cred at the gym Court South’s annual daycare costume contest. The snap and flash of cameras that left squiggles, stars, and dots under my eyelids on a stage in the Reflections awards banquet. Wind cooling my warm face after a Cross Country meet.


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