I am from roller skates with worn down stoppers from sugar cereal and abandoned gravel lots.
I am from the green house on the corner, average and paint's peeling. We can see our school from here. The yard in back is bigger when I'm smaller.
I am from the acorn pressed flat into the Pennsylvania mud the wide brown mushroom, daffodils with drooping heads, wet with thawing, early spring dew.
I am from a restaurant on Christmas Eve and small hands, from mom quietly praying and Dad in a sagging chair with ripped upholstery.
I am from silence and desperation and fingers worked raw and lazy arrogance on Sunday.
From God is love, God is jealous, God is angry and these are the end of days.
I am from anointed foreheads and babbling spirit languages in the dark, hands pressed on flesh, hands that could heal and make the blind to see.
I'm from a nowhere town populated by young people who are only passing through, bulk bin cookies with white icing and spongy angel food cake with sugared strawberries.
From the birthday where dad got mad and left us in the car, pulled out into the road. My brothers and sisters laughing through their tears at a puppet show that hurt my heart, my grandmother had eighteen siblings.
I am from a box tucked into the entertainment center, images yellowing and curling around the edges. In fourth grade I wore giant glasses that slid off of my nose. The lenses were tinted purple so that the colors of the world weren't quite right.
Where are you from? Use this template to tell us.