Where I Am From

I am from a dusty book on the shelf

Unread, undisturbed, untouched

I am from the room behind a closed door

Lonely, bleak, continuously shrinking

I am from the wind

 The light, warm breeze or

 The bitter force of a tornado

I am from boisterous church goers

I am from Mother and Father

And from generations before

I am from favoritism and unhealthiness

From “I’ll give you something to cry about”

And “the lights are on, but nobody’s home”

I am from the rusty nails in His hands and feet

From the blood that trickled down,

Tracing the woodgrains of the cross

I am from forgiveness

I am from the earth

I am from the last rock thrown at the bee hive

And from the one last bee that did not sting

And from the old pickup truck and dusty road

And from great grandfather’s arms

Carrying my dying grandmother

Through the whites only section of the hospital

I am from breaking the law

I am from the cardboard box in the closet

From the photos kept but unseen

Expanding their dust collection and fading to nothingness

Captured moments with forgotten stories, but

I still remember the flash

The bright light that left me in utter darkness