I am from ripped old blue jeans, from dirt and hard work.
I am from the big red barn.
I am from the crown of thorns, the rose bush.
I am from the Christmas parties and cheerful holiday spirit, from Roger and Mary and Lee.
I am from the fake smiles and laughs.
From “never give up” and “always stay humble and kind.”
I am from the long narrow stained glass windows to the never ending pews of the Catholic church.
I’m from Livonia and little Italy, pasta and garlic bread.
From the never forgotten grandfather who died of cancer, the family cramming to carol in the cozy dark den around the warm lit fireplace, and the little girl helping grandma cook in the kitchen.
I am from the pictures on the old dusty fireplace mantel.
From the house overlooking the river.
I am from the hillside of a pasture enclosing the wild horses.
From the wisps of air that your long hair catches of lingering lost memories of ghosts sharing their secrets while you ride away into the fading sunset.