I am from travels across long and winding roads. From musty clothes and a tattered suitcase.
I am from Huguenot, number 327. Long dark halls where fear hid behind each door.
I am from constant disagreements and hurt from Strollo, artistic talents from Havens and depression…from Smith.
I am the sarcastic one of Lloyd Chester and ever-critical like Mary Patricia but not as punishing as Mary Agnes. I have Marjorie’s fleeting elegance… but not her voice. I have Lee’s fingers guiding mine as I write …but not the music from his soul.
I am from kneeling in Catholic church until my knees were numb and my back ached from staying rigid. From pain that was better than any punishment from the nuns who patrolled the aisle.
I’m from the poor shadows of decaying New Rochelle and the wealth of golden San Francisco. Beef Stew and Pâté de Foie Gras.
I am from Lilacs, briefly bursting with soft color and fragrance. From sand that washes into the ocean with every storm.
I’m from hindsight…and wishing, always wishing.
I am from dreams of different beginnings; from gathering moments into boxes of forgotten memories labeled… Indifference, Anger and Why?
Mostly, I am an outsider, safely standing on the edges of my life, wondering.
From Mama Kat’s Writing Prompts For 12.18….Complete the “Where I’m From” poem.