I Am...

I am from a small town called Strasburg,

nicknamed Strasvegas, because its the city of two lights,

and a, being raised in a house

from a row of cookie cutter houses.

I am from afternoons at my mother's classroom,

from pine sol and laundry detergent

and my Uncle's insistence to burn the hamburgers.

I am from the maple tree,

whose fallen leaves I used to form into pitifully small piles,

until I considered myself too old to jump in them.

I'm from homemade pie crust,

and my cousin's setting of backyard fireworks on the Fourth of July,

from my grandmother's kitchen, and my grandpa's garden.

I'm from cleaning my room by shoving everything into the closet,

and picking a new fight while trying to resolve an old one,

and eating too much chocolate.

I'm from "put down the book and do your homework,"

and watching Disney channel until I had the lines memorized.

I'm from Christmas cookies given to my father on his mail route

from lunch at Dairy Queen with my grandma and my grandpa's coin collection,

from my aunt's cheesy potatoes, and my grandma's disgusting cottage cheese dessert.

I'm from reading until it was one in the morning and my eyes were burning,

despite having promised my mother only ten more pages,

from long softball tournaments in the rain, snow, or shine, and running suicides at basketball practice

and a collection of miscellaneous trophies, taking up precious room on my bookshelf.

These simple scraps of memories may seem boring to you,

but they are stepping stones on the path that led me to today,

and I am grateful for them.