Where I'm From

I am from mile-high stacks of firewood, from Toyota trucks and kitchen woodstoves.

I am from the sweet-smelling kitchen, flour-covered hands, and whispering winds through the trees.

I am from the flowering Holly bush, the bright rolling hills, and hovering fog on the green mountains.

I am from snow drifts and kayaking in the yard; from the sweetest of dogs and most curious cows.

I am from long random drives and dark brown eyes and playing card games,

From crazy family gatherings and the rare “normal” moments—and families of friends not bound through blood.

I am from the loving caretakers, loud open minds; and from grandparents riding scooters.

From growing up to be what I want, and always pushing to do and be better.

I am from the wood of an altar, covered in tears—the piano and guitar loud in my ears.

I’m from the quiet Pete Lynch, Germany and England; from home-cooked meals, and bonfire talks.

From the journey to the top of a ridge, from feeling the biting breeze and watching nature make its own beautiful creations.

I am from the large Rubbermaid tubs filled to the brim with photos and stories of times long gone—memories upon memories awakened anew like the dawn.

From driving back roads and watching the wildlife; from swingsets, playgrounds, and volleyball nets.

I am from rippling clear waters, and fun on the lake.

From all of these places, I know many faces—they’ve allowed me to grow into “me.”