I am from when two pairs of blue eyes met, and the woods that ran for miles. I am from the swingset that rested near them, and the willow tree that engulfed me in its branches to hide me away from my baby brother during the summer.
Edisto Island is where I roam, where being alone calmed me instead of scared me, and a pink, stuffed rabbit was my only friend. I am from Brenda and Kenneth, and the lessons they taught me, and the nicknames they gave me.
I am from a small, white rental house that my grandfather owned, where we had picnics as we rested from painting the walls. I am from Don Leeper, motorcycle rides, and the garage where I sat back and watched him work. But I am also from sleepless December nights, and bright hospital rooms wondering why a man that was so kind and smart had to leave me. I am from swears that this was a dream and promises to be better if he stays. I am from anger, insecurities, dried tears, and death.
I'm from quiet evenings at the lake where you aren't sure if you're relaxed or unnerved by the silence and the black water around you, and the blowing of the pages of a thick sketchbook. Now, I live quietly, always remembering where I'm from.