I Am From by Debra

I Am From

I am from the vineyards of Alsace, from the forests of Britain, the fields of County Cork and the tee pees of North America.

 

I am from a white farmhouse atop a hill, rolling pastures, deep woods, the smell of hay and manure.

I am from Snapdragon, Tiger Lily and tall, leafy trees.

 

I am from farmers wise in the ways of the earth and judges versed in the law. 

I am from Countremans, Armacosts, Shiveleys and Gaffins who believed in hard work, God, justice and rain.

 

I am from generations of men and women who tilled the earth and asked no man for aid.

I am from “He who will not work, neither shall he eat,” said with stern face framing sparkling, loving eyes.

 

I am from Baptists and Quakers: “Thou shalt not kill, covet, lie, steal.” 

I am from a small steepled church nestled within the hills of Southern Ohio.

 

I am from pastures, lowing cattle and salt licks. 

I am from fields shooting forth tobacco plants, tall wheat, alfalfa. 

 

I am from hay-filled barns, three legged stools and tall, shiny cans redolent with the scent of fresh, warm milk. 

I am from the garden: ripe tomatoes and corn, green beans and onions.

 

I am from the spring house, cool and refreshing on a hot summer day, filled with rich cream, cheeses, and newly churned butter.

 

I am from a mother who walked away in search of a better life and found heartache instead.

 

I am from the south end: rag tag houses falling down, gaunt children staring from sagging front porches.

 

I am from a Catholic church built tall: gilded and marbled, smelling of incense. 

 I am from rosaries and chalices. 

I am from Ave Maria.

I am from God.

 

***

 

I am from the loneliness of an abandoned child, born to poverty and neglect.

I am from a race of strong women who refused to be held down, who would not say yes when they meant no.

 

I am from a country torn by assassination, Viet Nam and the Atomic Bomb.

I am from the flashing lights, the music, the throbbing beat of disco. 

I am from the deliciousness of a soul reborn, dancing with arms uplifted.

 

I am from the wedding; the chapel flower-laden; the organ pealing forth a song of promise.

I am from adoption agencies: babies lost; hopes crushed; tears shed.

 

I am from the joy of motherhood.

 

I am from the nursery: powder-scented days of Nursery Nirvana; baby lotion and Similac; somnolent dawns and dreamy dusks.

I am from the world of anomalies: beautiful baby face: cleft lip and palate.  Can no one else see his beauty?

 

I am from the hospital room.  Sweet baby held close: must keep safe; must alleviate the pain; must do this for him.

 

I am from an author long dead:  poems collected in a cigar box.  Pete Seager singing Grandpa’s words. 

 I am from a grandfather never met, yet so close to my heart.

 

I am from the printed page; goals reached; dreams attained. 

 

I am from the story told and the story read.

 

I am from many things.

 

I am from my experiences.

 

I am from the Universe.

 

 

©2007 Debra Shiveley Welch