Where I'm From

This poem is one I composed for a friend's blog early last year. I decided to make this my first post because I think it will give my readers a good idea of who I am, where I come from, and where I am going.

I am from a little cul-de-sac, a dead end in a long and winding road; from my granny’s cobbler made with blackberries picked on the side of the river road on a lazy summer day.

I am from the first house built on the block, the house that stood alone for so long. The house filled with a little girl’s memories of days long gone, the house waiting patiently for that little girl to return. A house whose days were darkened with great sorrow and later brightened with even greater joy. Dashed hopes, unfulfilled dreams overcome with a mother’s stubborn determination and independent will. Forgiveness and love.

I am from wicker baskets filled with dried lavender and African violets blooming in the kitchen window.

I am from Friday night football games cheering on my Eagles in a stadium bearing my father’s name. From cutting cute blonde bangs on the front steps of an old green house; from Big Ma, Pa Ed and As Levan.

I am from blind, unconditional love and Granny Roy’s hugs that could heal any broken heart.From the golden child aspiring to keep a dream cut short alive, to finding the self no one could have foreseen.

I am from everywhere. Saturday night gospel singings at the Walker County Auditorium and family bible readings beside an unlit fire. Rex Humbard saving the souls of the heathen on TV and Earnest Angsley healing only those who believed. It’s a wonder how I found my way; from Sunday Schools and VBS to Friday Prayers and Ramadan. What a shock for those I loved. What a shock for me

I'm from Cairns’ and Tomlin’s and Levan’s I never knew. And from Roy’s who run as deep in my blood as the water runs deep in the sea. The deep south, southern bells and rebel flags. Chilton County peaches and pecans off the tree behind Mama Clara’s house. Pecan pie.

From valiant young grandfathers who fought bravely in 1943, and the lovelorn grandmothers who waited back at home faithfully, the early ending memories of a man I never really knew.

I am from independent women and hard-working men. From a sister who I love and a brother I wish I really knew. From a mother who tried to understand and “father” who does the best he can. Thank you God for giving me what you have. Life is nothing more than our memories and my memories are grand.