Roots

I am from an empty auditorium

Long days and late nights spent reaching deadlines

Looming performance dates and smiling through applause.

I am from hand-me-downs and old soccer cleats

The shin guards that spend nine years falling off

And the team of eight that always won.

I am from the first time I saw Chicago

The way I feel at home in a crowd

And American Girl Club meetings with strict schedules.

I am from a hidden dam in the middle of the woods

And the times I’ve nearly slipped on the riverbank.

I am from “mangia bevi”

And pasta three times a day

With no concept of a serving size.

I am from the bits of Italy growing in my garden

And stories of my ancestors coming across the ocean

With money smuggled in a stone wall.

I am from never saying anything flat out

From sneaking books into isolated corners

And being found many chapters later.

I am from dusty camera lenses

An unspoken legacy of photographers

Born on the same day in very different years.

I am from bulletin boards and stapler removers

The chop of the die cut, over and over each September.

I am from tears spilling with every conversation

From learning how to keep them fact-oriented

And from bible verses hissed like threats.

I am from messy eyeliner and clumped mascara

Sparkly nails smudged with impatience.

I am from calloused hands relentlessly running through scales

And falling asleep with a knotted stomach

No matter how much I had practiced.

I am from “I’d never do that” and “you’re surely mistaken”

Pleas for antidotes one day and blunt refusal the next

Oversized teddy bears and messy beds.

I am from somewhere that felt average enough

Until my fifth taste of somewhere better

Put a need for change into the deepest parts of me.