I am from t-shirts, from Dr. Pepper and iced tea.

            I am from apartments and condos, dingy white walls, off-white carpets, amorphous popcorn ceilings, in which eyes can detect truth that fades into lies.

            I am from the red-barked pines, the cultivated red rose.

            I am from elbows on table and blue eyes, from Geri and Mitchell and Seward.

            I am from craziness and occasional laziness.

            From don’t step on a crack or you’ll break Momma’s back and forgiveness is a virtue.

            I am from avoiding hellfire and brimstone, staying away from nuts who mention them. Casually devout.

            I am from Shreveport, pirates, politicians, and the world, from bread of all sorts and extra sharp yellow cheddar.

            From the peg leg of forgotten ghost privateer Peter, from “Frankie” Universal Frankenstein and the dimly lit room.

            I am from the bookshelf and attic, shining gold collecting dust as it sits, ignored, until they are brought, vampires into the sun, burning in the apathy of all but a few. The people who stare, impressed and big eyes, as people and places of long ago lure into draining.