I am from the newspaper being delivered twice a day, from a house full of GE appliances and musicals on PBS on Sunday afternoons.
I am from the organized home where everything except my room was always neat and tidy, where bathrooms were cleaned by Comet cleaner.
I am from the pine trees and pine cones and oak trees, the leaves and needles used to cushion our bodies when we jumped into them.
I am from traveling to Rhode Island for Thanksgiving and hiding Thin Mints for my grandparents to find, and short tempers, from Lucretia and Betty and Lizzie Borden.
I am from the high expectations and the never lets go.
From poll your friends and you’re not their kid, you’re mine.
I am from Sunday school and Christmas Eve services, from not really knowing what I believe and where I belong.
I’m from the rocky coast of Maine and the tiny state of Rhode Island, of coffee milk and hot buttered biscuits.
From the Lizzie Borden gave her mother 40 whacks, the aunt who survived polio and living in an iron lung, and the life of a young girl without her father.
I am from albums full of photos, of so few photos of my mom’s family, of my dad’s report cards we’d laugh at, of the special Christmas ornaments we made that hung on the tree for years and now adorn my tree.