I am from a house hidden behind trees on the edge of woods, discovered, yet wild. One path led to civilization, and one path led to a burned slab and broken chimney - all that was left to mark the place of a family's life.
I am from the cold stream and sweet-smelling garden that existed only in my imagination, and a very real oak that stood tall and proud, with branches beckoning me to climb, sit and read for hours.
I am from pots banged loudly on the new year and shouts that rang out even louder. I am from names changed and stories half-told, papers hoarded, soup cans and gavels.
I am from secrets and hiding, codependency and denial.
From Where Have All the Flowers Gone and Revolution Number 9.
I am from pages as thin as onion skins bound in leather; and words that should bring joy, chained in rules and duties.
I am from the west for just a moment, then lost in the south. Shortbread and hot tea in china cups; and sweet tea and cornbread in iron skillets. I am from roots dug deep, yet I am not connected.
From a hole in the fence, barely big enough for two children to sneak through. We felt a thrill of danger as we hid behind the bushes, and we made it back just in time to escape detection - with honeysuckle on our breaths and smooth stones in our pockets. Ours was a friendship, connected by blood, that I thought would last forever.
I am from boxes stored and piled high. From one family that saves nothing and another family that does not throw away - caught between two extremes, both that leave my hands empty and my heart lost.
I was introduced to Fred First Floyd's Form by Chibi Jeebs.
If you make one of your own, you can link it up on Schmutzie's blog.
Have the places and family you are from affected who you are today?