I am from sleepy Sunday mornings.

From powdery pancake mix stained on the stove,

from the sizzle of bacon and snaps of grease.

I am from barefoot feet covered in midnight’s dirt.

From giggles and whispers with in the bushes during hide and seek,

to the counting of the clock in Ghost in the Graveyard.

I am from the forest green door, pale yellow house on the corner.

From my piggy bank under my bed, to the mesmerizing aquarium keeping me awake,

and profit sharing lemonade stands in summertime.

I come from family that puts one before the other; my father, mother, and sister.

From snuggles during sunrises and goodnight kisses at dusk,

I am from a place that blossomed, like the roots of a slow-growing flower.