I am from ink,
from Haribo and strawberry flavoring.
I am from the house with selfish windows.
I am from the wilting orchids, the attempts at ivy.
I am from coffee cake and curly hair,
from Gerald and the Allens.
I am from the night-owls and bookworms,
from genius and insanity, however slight. Or not.
I’m from the world as a being, and exploration.
Self as a creation, but of what.
I’m from Ireland and Hampton, eggnog and sweets.
From the questions my grandpa answered in sleep, the masters with unknown purpose.
I am from stories in minds and out of mind, pictures lost and found, remembered as somewhere on the shelf. I am from the absent-minded whose minds have faces. I am from home.