Where I’m From

I am from weathered red bricks that –
if pulled from their place on the well-used walkway –
would reveal small, frantic bugs with one hundred legs.

From Nannie’s Sunday-service heels,
hanging from my toes, hoping to one day fill them.

I am from bookshelves crowded with ancient stories;
hardcover and musty, containing tales I could not yet understand.

From jewellery boxes filled with the jewels of generations past.
My young eyes digesting the beauties of the old and the precious,
envisioning and admiring the women who had adorned them.

I am from secret hiding places under the stairs,
accompanied by Nannie’s perfumey coats,
ice cream sandwiches, and mouse traps.

From large, inviting trees, perfect for climbing, for hiding-and-seeking,
for exploring and pretending –
watching those trees grow older with me.

I am from gravel crunching beneath tires when Mom pulls up the long driveway,
peeking from my perch on the chair behind lacey curtains,
a weekend’s quiet coming to an end.

I am from Nannie standing in her doorway,
her figure getting smaller and smaller,
waving goodbye for now –

see you soon.