I am from burnt crayon wax, from Coke a Cola and the slightly acrid smell of frying fish.
I am from a windowless room on a dead end. Crocheted Throws. Wet Fall Leaves. A small town built like an afterthought.
I am from the forsythia bush, potted violet, the smooth worn river rock.
I am from sassafras tea and silliness, from O'Fannon and then Fannon and Miller.
I am from guilt trips and humility.
From we can't have a damn thing and shut the door.
I am from lazy Southern Baptists. And worshipping from the side of the fishing boat on Sunday morning.
I’m from a small town and a smaller Maries County, beans and cornbread.
From the Navy hopes dashed Father with hearing loss from childhood neglect, the Uncle who volunteered for two Vietnam tours, and the Uncle who died at 19 while storming the beach.
I am from the box under my mom's bed, the scattered collection of headstones barely even a mile from that. The memories that are lost and the memories to which a shrinking family cling.
If you want to build your own Where I'm From poem, Go Here.