I Am from Everywhere

I am from everywhere.

I am from hemp sails at Plymouth Rock. I am carved from a stone statue
standing proud in Massachusetts. I am from blue bloods and farmers. I
am from rebel minutemen wielding muskets. I am from Solomon. The man
who walked home from war to die in his wife’s arms.

I am from Peirce’s and Winn’s, Grant’s and Jolly’s.

I am from the ocean. I slithered out on my belly to find dry land. I
have never stopped looking back. I am from a mermaid, a siren, a
seagull. I am from a long line of beachcombers. I am missing myself
when I am far from the coast. Perpetually landlocked within my own
body.

I am from silver thimbles and thread collections wound on wooden
spools. I am from the farmer’s daughter who married late and lived
long. I am from petite grandmothers and exceptionally tall
grandfathers.

I am from a hole in the condom. The baby girl, the tattletale, the
perpetually worried child. I am from San Diego, although I remember it
not. I am from far away families. I am from many people I never met
but whom I resemble in many ways. I am from longings and missings.

I am from Napa valley, a safe suburban cul-de-sac of my childhood
memory. Streetlights and neighborhood pools and dislocated shoulders.

I am from Jersey of all places. And The Wind In the Willows, fresh
snowfall, and Emmett Otter’s Jug Band Christmas. I am from sledding
and chapped lips and friends moving yet again. I am from shyness,
awkwardness, and insecurities. I am from social acceptance and guilt
and dysfunction.

I am from blueberry picking in Vermont. I am from snowmobile rides
with my father and lodge sitting with my mother. I watch skiing from
the sidelines. I am from snow angels and hot chocolate. I am from
snowcapped men with ice beards. I am from magic in childhood.

I am from Virginia. I am from music halls, symphony conductors,
folding chairs, and long black skirts. I am from the power of
creation. I am from Stewart, who played saxophone sitting on the rock
in a Nova Scotia river. I am from the music he gave me in my blood.

I am from a speckled conch shell that traveled across the sea from
Scotland. I am from 400 acres in Yarmouth. I am from the stories I
heard but never loved until I heard them no more. I am from sugar
rations and bomb shelters. I am from farms and towns and cities.

I am from superstitions. I am from salt tossed over your shoulder,
knocks on wood, ghosts, and rabbit rabbit rabbits.

I am from a cloud of smoke, a tipi flap, and a crackling woodstove. I
am from a snowshoe hike up a steep hill. I am from a rooftop patio
under the stars. I am from sleep talkers, dreamers, and swimmers. I am
from a Polaroid camera and a child named Precious.

I am from the water’s edge. Thick Texas mud under my nails and
clinging to my skirt’s hem. I am from all laboring mothers everywhere.

I am from somewhere new everyday. I am from everywhere but here.

I am from uprooted trees. Transplanted before blooming. I am from
swamps filled with cypress trees and knobby knees. Roots in water,
moving and fluid. I am from lakes topped with lily pads. I am the
optical illusion of roots. The child holding the balloon that so often
slips free to float away to a new home. Never without tears.