Break me

How Can You Know Where You're Going, If You Don't Know Where You're From?

I am from blank pages in a notebook,

from white out and dried up pens.

I am from sand in a turtle sandbox,

cold and grainy; it was wet and dry

at the same time.

I am from the towering cottonwood

tree, the red rose bush in the backyard

with thirds that always pricked me.

I am from baking Christmas cookies

and procrastination.

I am from loud dinner conversations

and quiet movie nights.

I am from looking and not touching

and being seen but not heard.

I am from John 3:16 on Sunday mornings.

I am from waterfalls and secrets.

I am from the gray cat my mom bought

for my big sister for free, the goldfish

in my little sister's room that died the

next day, and the white kitten with blue

eyes I got for Christmas.

I am from the twenty photo albums in

the basement, filled with Polaroid pictures

and half a lifetime of forgotten memories.

They are pictures of days doing nothing

and days of being invincible.