Where I'm From

I am from the visions of sunbeams gleaming through a window too high to curtain.

I am from the inviting smell of freshly-baked banana bread.

I am from the rough, scratchy bark of the low-hanging limb of a tree.

I am from the homely scent of cat dander.

I am from the savory flavor of my mother’s homemade meatloaf tinged with a coating of sweet ketchup.

I am from the songs played by my father, the ancient melodies imprinted in my memory.

I am from the comforting feeling of a cat, from her silky, fur coat to her soft, velvety paws to the calming vibrations of her purr.

I am from the subsequent sting inflicted by the claws of a cat who decides she’s had enough.

I am from the reluctant look in my mother’s eyes, brimming with tears as she first sent me to school.

I am from the blinding, fluorescent lights of a school room.

I am from the mocking red ink, branding the worth of work.

I am from the odor of a packed lunch, unexplainably sullied in transport.

I am from the abrupt beeping of a timer, signaling the end silent reading.

I am from the consolidation of numerous, unrelated conversations, incapable of being extinguished by the teacher.

I am from the muffling of this verbal chaos with music blaring through headphones, while secretly preferring silence.

I am from the amalgamation of body sprays and perfumes used by my peers to mask insecurities I lacked the knowledge to identify, the odor growing more pungent with each passing year.

I am from a feeling of exhaustion so great I feel as if keeping my eyes closed a moment longer than a blink would allow sleep overtake me.

I am from the reluctant reopening the weighted lids of my eyes, as the risk outweighs the reward.

I am from the artificial flavor of poorly-microwaved chicken nuggets smothered in sweet ketchup, consumed solely for sustenance.

I am from the piles and piles of school work splayed across my bed at 1 am, occupying the space where my sleeping form should dwell.

I am from the beguiling aroma of medium-roast coffee followed by its bitter taste, yet chugging it as a dehydrated man would with lake water.

I am from the physical ache I am tormented with after working a shift I have no time for.

I am from the scent of a cold, winter evening, the frost in the air burning my airways with each labored breath.

I am from the sound of a car door closing, followed by a long-awaited silence.

I am a sunbeam gleaming through a window too high to curtain.