This is an I Am From Poem I wrote in conjunction with my husband about his childhood. It has such a different feel from it than my poem, but I guess his past has a different feel from it than mine also. It’s interesting to note the differences. One day (as I keep saying), I’d like to write his story.
I am from baby pictures lost in the shuffle,
From Lifesaver books and Bazooka bubble gum,
From pulling weeds and mowing grass.
I am from the pink house in the city neighborhood,
Filled, noisy, confused,
Raw potatoes eaten in a locked basement,
Peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwiches filling empty bellies.
I am from the small house on the corner,
Crowded, busy,
The steam of canning jars drifting up from the kitchen stove.
I’m from the Michigan farm, the Virginia trailer,
The suburban corner with tall sunflowers and curly grape vines.
I’m from tent camping with brothers in the summer and
Little House on the Prairie games with sisters in the winter,
From Ritchies and Hubbards.
I’m from the Sunday altar calls
And the stoic silence of buried hurts,
From “Don’t eat so fast, there’s plenty to go around” and
“God helps those who help themselves.”
I’m from Ypsilanti to Richmond,
Three brothers to four sisters,
From weeding the garden and raking the yard,
Labradors, quail, and rabbits,
From the bright lights of a ball field and the smell of a leather glove.
I am from foster homes and adoption issues,
Crazy cake and soft-boiled eggs.
From the empty house without a mom,
The full house with four unknown sisters,
From abandonment, loss, and confusion,
Woven with strands of God.
I am from hope.
-by Sandra Kay, written in 2012 (for Ron)
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