Have you ever read the poem “Where I’m From” by George Ella Lyon?  I found out about it when I was a part of The Journey.  It spoke to my soul.  It still does.  I love storytelling, I think it is one of the most beautiful arts.  I could sit and listen for hours to people share their memories, even when I don’t know the “characters”.  I suppose it’s why I enjoy memoirs so much.  You can check out George’s poem here.

I’ve made this poem more than once, it changes as I change.  And I like remembering and cataloging new and different things.

Where I am {Currently} From

I am from bobby pins,
from Singer and Correlle.
I am from the sprinkler in the front yard
(cold, and wet
it looked like our own rain storm).
I am from the sycamore tree,
the iris bulbs
that split again each year.

I’m from Christmas light tours and games of cards,
from Granny Doris and Uncle Pickle,
and cousins so far removed.
I’m from the I’m-always-rights,
and the stubborn-to-a-faults.
From “top-lip, bottom-lip together,”
And “be kind to the little people.”

I’m from hours of grape counting
each Sunday as the minister’s sermon made a musical backdrop.
I’m from where Kessler turns and where love is always found,
From homemade noodles and never ending coffee.
From the seamstress who proved great-grandma wrong
From the human encyclopedia.

In the study were the albums
whose adhesive had aged
and pictures came tumbling about
as you leafed through.

I am from those times that made me
older than the age on the calendar
whether I was ready or not.