I am from a box of worn down old crayons, from generic macaroni and cheese and hamburger helper.
I am from the third floor, dark, crowded, overwhelming.
I am from the large jade plant, the pansies on the porch, the dust dancing in the sunbeams, the perfectly shaped evergreens, the moss roses and the spring caterpillar nests.
I am from meatless Christmas Eve and loud boisterous voices, from Dorthy and Olive, and John.
I am from the passive aggressive and worst case scenario.
From some day you’ll have children and you’ll see and money doesn’t grow on trees.
I am from the sign of the cross, confession, rosary’s used at CCD but never at home. From Our Father who art in Heaven.
I’m from here with ties to there, from pirogi and sausage.
From the busted blood vessel in a sisters eye, the constant bickering, fighting and wrestling, and the late nights taking, giggling and dreaming.
I am from faded old photos and black and white albums, stacked in musty basements, boxed in shuttered old storage units, lost and forgotten by some but not all. I am everything they were and everything they weren’t I am the same and I am different, the faded and black and white photos collected now, cherished, stacked in dusty albums on forgotten shelves until someone asks, and remembers.
Melissa tackles the sticky bits of Motherhood at Peanut Butter in my Hair.
Writing Me is a community writing project. We’d love to have you join us.