I am from… the books left open on the coffee table, from libraries and little bookstores.
I am from…the little house on the hill, the small one without fancy things, but the place we all gathered because it was filled with love.
I am from…the gardens where the seeds are planted in neat squares but grow wherever they want.
I am from…the bedtime stories, dinner conversations and Mom’s homemade mac & cheese, and Dad’s contagious laugh and gesticulations.
I am from… the kind and the quiet.
From…strength of character and taking the path less traveled.
I am from…the belief to find the good in everyone.
I’m from…transplants, one from across the sea and one from across the country. Two anything-but-southern parents who raised a decidedly southern daughter.
From…laughing until I cried with my mother, crying until I laughed with my father, the grandmother I thought resembled the Pillsbury doughboy and the grandmother who married one too many times.
I am…honestly myself, mixed together with one part pack rat and two parts archivist, another part practical and a dash of hopeless romantic, all tied together with the need to make everyone get alone and realizing it can’t be done.
That’s where I’m from.