"Where I Am From"

I am from tree houses,
From sand smashed between toes.
I am from scabs in a jar, and Peter Rabbit.
Sidewalks and dirt roads,
Caught in imagination and a land I've always known.
I am from Narnia,
The long hallway to my room,
From the trees out back,
Tall, welcoming, a place I call home.
I am from piano keys, guitar strings, calluses from the violin,
A houseboat full of kids pretending they're British,
Fooling quite a few people, too.

I am from cookies and milk,
No fluff, no shine.
I am from the diligent and full of faith
Who earned money with time.
I am from the pipe-smoke filled room,
And the sterile hospital one.
I am from witty remarks and loud guffaws,
Smiles and laughs using the whole body, not just the mouth.
And, of course, photographs (lots of them).
I am from the feast on the table, and no food at all.
I am from the purple Victorian house
In the small, quiet town.
From diapers in the carpet, and the massive theatre floor.
The milk man's baby, or so the story goes.

I am from the strong-willed, the joyful
From Mommy, who tried not to die.
From the broken-hearted, and nights
When all you can do is cry.
I am from the small red-haired woman,
And the German who packs a punch,
From the Great Depression, World War Two,
From painful Vietnam.
I am from the gun wound in G-pa's leg,
And the dog bites in Daddy's side.
I am from magical story-telling voices,
And words penned in time.
I am from Jesus, who literally saved my life.

In my bedroom is a notebook
Stuffed with words close to heart
And small goblins who've lost their way.
I am from those moments, sitting in the hall,
Listening to the stories, but not really listening at all,
Lost in the world floating from the page.
I am from the mind He made.