Where I’m From

Where I’m From
I am from fishing line,
from night crawlers and crawdads slipping through my fingers.
I am from the Crappie and the Bass,
the countless number of hooks getting caught in my finger.
I am from the tricks my mother taught me and the hot afternoons of laughter,
sometimes never getting a single bite.
I am from the Catfish that broke my fishing pole and the choice words that escaped my mouth.

I’m from Pecan and Sweet Potato pie,
from the homemade whip cream and holiday tradition.
I’m from the delicious dressing and the smell of rosemary in the kitchen
and the side of cranberry sauce to top it all off.
I am from the songs sang in unison
and the countless baby Aaron stories.
I am from homemade cooking, love filled food;
I’m from the countless recipes engraved in my brain.

I’m from sarcastic attitudes and bad tempers,
constantly exchanged in and outside of the house.
From the lessons of “Don’t start a fight, but be the one to finish it,”
To the suspension I endured in 4th grade.

Deep down in my heart is a cabinet,
Full of good memories and bad experiences.
Each containing pain and pleasure, sometimes a dash of confusion;
A faint scent of my old self lurks within them like mothballs in a closet.
I am from each of section of this cabinet, still not full but not completely empty—
I am the fish that was not big enough, tossed back in the water;
relevant but not satisfying.

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