I am from the sun-warmed red brick house at the end of an old gravel road.
I am from the alfalfa fields, the butterfly pollination in new spring .
I am from Christmas mornings and storytelling times, from Granny and Uncle Jim and Aranci.
I am from the work hard, play harder tradition and laughing too hard at jokes only we know.
From the dishes won’t do themselves and you must be happy with yourself before you can be happy with someone else.
I am from a great big God, graced.
I’m from the Great Plains, back along Italy, Germany, England and a tribe of Cherokee, mom’s lasagna and hot apple pie.
From the days of pecan tortes and fudge late nights in the kitchen, the memory of corn harvests in the snow, and the sunsets spent on the water catching a wake.
I am from a bookshelf full of dusty photos, snapshots of a childhood, a marriage, a family, a farm, a blue glass vase.