I am from bookcases overflowing with old musty hard covers, from David Sunflower seeds with Daddy and homemade lizard food with Mom.

I am from a small house holding too much, its corners bursting with junk mail but always willing to hold more people—family or strangers; from living room tables damaged by nail polish remover.

I am from sun ripened tomato plants whose fruit I would eat still warm from the vine, the cherry tree at the very back of the kiwi orchard where the cousins and I held secret club meetings.

I am from political discussions over turkey and ham, and big noses and dark eyelashes, from Foo, Kennedy, LaWanda and Geraldyne.

I am from insatiable curiousity and I-am-always-right;

From You Can Do Anything You Put Your Mind To and You’re a Teenager and We Can Tell.

I am from cold folding chairs and warm gray heads serving potluck dinners, from stained-glass windows and floor vents made for twirling in Sunday dresses, from the Lord’s Supper in small wooden chalices and sharing Awana bucks with friends.

I'm from Southern California and Ireland; the Mayflower and Alabama, freshly picked peaches and so many cherries it makes your stomach hurt.

From the daughter of a murdering Blackfoot Indian, the woman who wrote letters to a sailor and fell in love, the little girl who won a photo contest by posing nude, and the woman paid to model exercise equipment despite her age.

I am from grandmother’s cupboards stuffed full of photos my parents couldn’t afford, from love and faithfulness far more tightly bound than any photo album.