Where I’m From …

by Julia Campbell

I’m from the rough bark and tight

purple-red skin of cherries

in the summer. I’m from mud pies

baking on a hot aluminum slide

and crisp green beans.

I’m from the highest peaks, the

whispering aspens,

the trees with purple leaves, and

cracks in the sidewalk

that makes a continuing ssswump

sound when my bicycle goes over them.

I’m from the mud at the bottom of

puddles that stay all summer,

the smell of horses, and

brushing their sleek

bodies. I’m from a house

made of piles of crunchy brown leaves.

I’m from the knothole in the fence

where I could watch

other children playing, and the five-

foot-high tire that finally

brought them to me. I’m from huge

snowballs rolled by 20 children at

once.

I’m from shady spots where I played

dentist, pulling out the rocks I

thought were the earth’s loose teeth,

and uniforms of plaid jumpers,

white shirts, and brown, black, or

navy blue shoes.

I’m from dandelions wrapped in soggy

paper towels, and Strawberry Short

Cake tennis shoes with Velcro laces.

I’m from bedtime stories of Pink

Nose, Orange Toes, and Freddy Fire

Engine told around a night-light.

I’m from the walk-in refrigerator that

keeps apples fresh. I’m from

backing a boy into a corner in kindergarten,

with every intention of

kissing him, because he owned the

most beautiful boa constrictor I’d

ever seen.

I’m from crying in my closet, because

no one loved me,

and from feeling so happy I couldn’t

even laugh. I’m from the smell

of warm pine, rain, and mothballs.

I’m from the satin feeling of toe shoes,

and the squishiness of blisters.

I’m from the sight of light and oil

that make dead rainbows in parking

lots,

and from sunsets, and weeds growing

through cement.

I’m from the silence of snowfalls and

the crack of thunder. I’m from

savoring

ripe peaches, and macaroni and

cheese, and parsley, and chives,

and

God.