You Ask Me Where I Came From

I am from wild blackberries,
        the rhythm of my father’s knock on the door,
        from communication through notes on the counter
        and kittens in the bathtub.

I’m from Carlos O’Kelly’s—
        ordering the enchilada de monterrey, saving room for dessert;
        it was always someone’s birthday.

I am from jarts and shooters, cards and fuse beads,
        from “Captain May I?” and letting the younger cousins win.
        I’m from the water trampoline,
        catching frogs,
        and creek splashing behind the house.

I am from paddling back to the dock when the boat runs out of gas.

I am from Christmas pageant practices,
        fondue on Christmas Eve,
        and listening to my grandpa read the second chapter of Luke.

I am from “So sorry for your loss” and
        “Welcome to the family.”
        I’m from weddings and funerals.

I am from Judging Amy,
        from scrapbooking at the kitchen table,
        from the dusty peacock statue and playing with cookie dough.

I am from an Oklahoma twang that sneaks up on me unexpectedly.

I’m from the starry quilt above the stairs
        and from playing games beneath them.
        I’m from covering my entire body in stickers on a rainy afternoon.

I’m from gold Beatles albums,
        army fatigues and dog tags,
        from Power Rangers in the tree fort.

I am from five lasts names under one roof,
        a house without enough bathrooms or spots at the table.
        I’m from family dinner cross-legged in the hallway.

I am from the cover of a magazine and a final line in an obituary,
        from heartbreak and mistakes,
        from finding something to smile about again.