Where I'm from

I am from stars, from orange shine and generics. I am from the train whistles heard in the dead of night. (Alarming, haunting, you could almost touch the dreams being carried away.) I am from the lilac bush, the tiger lilies who whispered to me that they were mine. I’m from cabbage rolls and arthritis, from flowers and Edy. I’m from loving and not sticking around, from “goodbye” and “be good.” I’m from fall upon your knees to the only one who can help, from offer it up to God and a rosary I used to know all the words to. I’m from bad neighborhoods and open fields, alcohol and banana bread. From the water my grandpa sailed in the navy to the mind my brother lost in the war. Atop my dresser there was a wooden box holding pictures of my childhood, with a lock that sprung open to present my smiling face of admiration of a person long gone. It’s only right that I am one more secret on my family tree, turning red as autumn comes, soon to jump off the edge of my branch to freedom.