I am from a powder-blue bicycle with pink streamers, from Barbie and hand-cranked ice-cream. I am from the concrete house on the corner that was once a mid-century, valley-hidden gas station. I am from autumn-pink azaleas, and broad-leafed redbuds.
I am from tracking Santa’s flight on the 10 o’clock weather forecast; I am from rosy cheeks and blue eyes, from Grandma Nina’s hands. I’m from made-up recipes and splattered cookbooks; I am from Betty Crocker.
I am from having too much food at the Thanksgiving table, and sneaking siestas behind the recliner. From stomping on puff mushrooms on the way to the creek. From dam-building and mud-pie-making. I am from ‘when your mother was a child’ and ‘Mabel, Mabel, sweet and able,..’ I am from cousin-filled pews and beaming, hand-holding grandparents. I am From the grace of Christ our Savior.
I’m from low-west Missouri surrounded by oaks and acorns; from blustering winter and blistering summer; from pineapple bars and chiles rellenos. I’m from the time Aunt Sherry was lured into a rug-covered pit in California, the poor dear. From the fishing-hook stuck in one Grandpa’s ear and the color ‘purkle’ from another Grandpa’s imagination.
I am from sleepy, early morning school bus rides and sleepy, late orchestra concerts. I am from ‘Nigh-night — love you — see you in the morning.’ From sneaking past mom and dad’s bedroom door. From careening over back roads with the windows rolled down.
I’m from field-parties and trying to be wild. I’m from failing, miserably, at being wild.
I am from the hope chest and the cedar closet; from the wrapped remnants of a wedding quilt and the boxed remains of a seaside vacation; from the yellowing photo albums and the long-saved TV-guide. I am from nostalgia — but reality. From a black puppy sleeping at the foot of my bed. From an angry cat rescued from a walnut tree.
I am from hearts looking backwards into hearts, further than memory can imagine or recall. I am from a hall of mirrors: constantly reflected in the generations of me.
Sarah writes nearly daily at This Heavenly Life. You can visit here there, if you’d like.
Writing Me is a community writing project. We’d love to have you join us.