Where I’m From

Where I’m From

I’m from cracked sidewalks and cicada hums,

from screen doors that slap shut in protest

and backyard swings that creak like tired bones.

I’m from my mother’s quiet fury,

the way she folded grief into laundry—

crease by careful crease.

From my father’s stories that smelled of engine oil

and half-truths he swore were gospel.

I’m from church pews hard as conscience,

Sunday shoes too tight for dreaming,

and hymnals filled with questions I wasn’t allowed to ask.

I’m from gravel roads that dust your ankles

and summer skies that break open like secrets.

From lightning bugs we trapped in jars

and let go, always too late.

I’m from burnt toast and borrowed time,

from the girl who stared out windows

thinking about other lives,

other names,

other skies.

And I’m still from there—

though I wear it quieter now,

like a photograph in my pocket.

Edges soft.

Colors fading.

But never gone.