I am from the worn pages of books,
from Dove soap and chamomile tea.
I am from the cozy, cluttered, aroma of freshly baked bread.
I am from the oak tree,
the blooming cherry blossom
whose early petals I remember as if they were my own.
I am from Sunday morning pancakes
and laughter that fills the room,
from Johnsons and Taylors and Smiths.
I am from the stubborn resilience
and the warm embraces.
From “always do your best”
and “look after your siblings.”
I am from hymns sung softly in the twilight,
a quiet faith like a steady flame.
I’m from Springfield and Irish-Italian roots,
pasta carbonara and apple pie.
From the story of Grandpa Joe, who sailed across the ocean with nothing but a suitcase,
the bravery of Aunt Maria who taught herself to read,
and the kindness of Uncle Lee who could fix anything broken.
I am from the top shelf of the living room bookcase, filled with albums and diaries,
each photo and word a testament to those who came before me,
a tapestry of dreams, sacrifices, and love.
