I Am From...

I found this earlier this morning over at Owlhaven (from there, you can play follow the link to find its origin in the blogosphere) and I fell in love with it. It's instant inspiration for the museless blogger - and so I tried to tackle it as soon as naptime struck. I'm sure I butchered the actual recipe for it, and I'll probably continue to play around with it, but for now, here is my first attempt.

(Also, I think this sort of writing exercise will come in handy in character development. I may use it on my Stealing Season characters, as I need to have that story finished in a matter of weeks to send off to my faculty mentor - Ack.)

I Am From...

I am from bicycles on hot pavement (gravel twisting beneath the wheels), from Popsicle sticks and skinned-knees on cool concrete steps, watching the yoke-yellow sun sink and streetlights stud the sidewalk.

I am from picking blueberries in the backyard and tagging tar-pocked telephone poles, playing kickball in the shadow of Silver Hill. I am from early morning Atari - Miner Fourty-Niner and Boulderdash, belly-down on the carpet. From Betwitched and I Love Lucy, with ginger ale and soup, and my mother's cool hand on my cheek.

I am from van-rides cross-country - from McDonald's pancakes on sticky LA mornings and pop-up trailer's set up at dusk. I am from lantern-lit, Tupperware suppers of beans and barbeque and from sandy footprints on rickety docks, feeding ducks from plastic bags of stale buns.

I am from my father's omelets and hash sizzling on Sunday mornings. From fried bologna, (curled into butterflies, spitting on the stove) and coffee ice cream frappes in Donald Duck cups with red straws, nearly too thick to suck.

I am from nightlights casting shadows on the ceiling and from listening to my sister's breath across the room. From my mother's silhouette - hands folded, kneeling between our beds. And from Pig Latin and laughter long after she'd left.

I am from advent calendars and Christmas eves with popcorn and a big-bulbed tree. From the chimes of golden angels spinning round a carousel of candles, and the soothing cadence of the Christmas story lifting from my mother's lips.

I am from church on Sundays and the knowledge that God is Good. I am from Amy Grant in my stockings and scripture based books on Easter mornings. I am from palm branches twisting in my fist and ticking my nose. I am from the faith that He is risen, He is risen indeed.

I am from a grandfather who lost his name, who died before my father was a man. And I am from Dawn's smoky kitchen with Victor slumped in a recliner watching Dances with Wolves. From my cousin's picking on spiral ham and drinking bottle after bottle until everything blurs into laughter.

I am from paper bags filled with photos and from albums yet to be filled. I am from home video's of junior high band concerts and talent shows - of science fairs and soccer games. I am from journals, with scribbles over every spare space - stacked away in boxes, in closets. I am from memories as cozy as sinking into soft sheets, and replayed as effortlessly as closing my eyes.