Where I’m From

A few weeks ago, I read Dwija’s post about where she’s from.  I realized as I traveled through the blogosphere that this was a writing exercise and I decided I wanted to try it out.
So, here I present to you…
Where I’m From
i am from t-shirts and blue jeans, from speedo and
cabbage patch kids and monchichi.
i am from the dilapidated shack on the wrong side of the railroad tracks,
and rooms filled with raucous laughter and flowing tears,
the smell of musky early summer morning hanging in the air.
i am from the rhododendron, the yellow rose, the clover.
i am from large brunch buffet spreads,  and responsibilities, and frugality
and book-smarts and street-not-so-smarts.
i am from Poliquin and Helen and Beau Rivage.
I am from the talking to hear yourself talk and
incessantly insisting on having the last word
and not letting anyone else get a word in edgewise.
i am from “just do it!” and walk-like-you-have-some-place-to-go;
from “pay attention to the game” and “don’t play if you don’t expect to win”.
iam from saints and virgin mary.
i am from rosaries, incense and candles, a creche, the crucifix.
i’m from the plains, quebec,  strawberry rhubarb pie
and bbq spare ribs on a sultry summer night.
i am from grandad informing a large room full of family that
he was the reason for most of them being there.
I am from aunt bea’s thanksgiving dinners,
and kids hanging out playing spades for hours at a time.
i am from distant cousins who feel like sisters
when you meet them after twelve years apart.
iam from pictures not taken, belongings lost in move after move.
iam from memories relived through conversations
with sisters whom i could not live without.
i am from broken dreams and from faith in happy endings.

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