Where I’m From
By Chloe Davis
I am from the orchestra performances,
the flute by the easel,
and the forever defective E key
I am from games with my siblings,
from the righteous knight’s quest
to the thieving vagabond
I am from my granddad’s,
from vanilla bean ice cream,
fried potatoes on the stove,
the shells pressed into the driveway
and our heights and hands autographed on the walls
I am from the Big House and the Lake House,
the Red Roof Inn and Dad’s Apartment.
From the peanut butter cookies
(ever so slightly burnt,
yet always devoured).
I’m from shark’s teeth and seashells,
from fossil hunts and sand in my shoes.
I’m from the driftwood forts and pirate swords,
and the olive shells I collected for my mother.
From the mosquito bites on my brother’s back
and the wasps in our yard.
I’m from the tadpoles in the neighborhood creek,
and the worms at the bus stop.
I’m from knees scraped on the chalk-covered pavement,
with bruises and bandaids,
and tears in my eyes.
I’m from the road trips and RV rides,
From Pepper Tree and Aurora,
to the Junk Shop and the Flea Market.
I’m from my Nana’s banana pudding,
from late night neapolitan ice cream with my dad,
and the beach explorations after
From ghost crabs in the bathtub
to sand fiddlers wiggling out of my hands
From the kid’s table by the tree
to “where are those twittering little birds?”
I’m from “if nobody else”
And “might as well be me”
From Southport and Fort Fisher
and Snow’s Cut, too
I am from the explorations I took,
and the ones I took for granted.
I am from the hospital visits I didn’t make
and the one’s I will yet.
From my sister’s hugs
and the conversations with my brothers
I am made from the ones I love
the ones they love,
and the ones we’ve lost,
and the ones I’ve never been able to know,
I will forever be grateful.