I am from hot suppers and homegrown cabbage and children in and out of doors.
I am from the ancient gray farmhouse, from enormous windows and unfinished rooms.
I am from the herb garden, the chestnut trees whose long gone limbs I remember as though they were my own.
I’m from hamburgers in the fireplace and not admitting I’m angry, from a 91-year-old grandpa in heaven and a brand new nephew on earth.
I’m from singing in parts and staying up late and making much of babies.
I’m from You’ll be just fine and Anything worth doing is worth doing right and Jesus loves me this I know.
I’m from rich holiday dinners, from seeds in deep rows of earth, from houses built with our hands.
I’m from Minnesota and France and Germany and homemade cookies and southern tea; from dad getting spanked in school and pretending to cry, from the Roth family Bible, from birthday boxes from one grandma and faint memories from the other and china heirlooms from both.
I am from Coblentz and Yoder and Yutzy and Zook.
I guess I am from Shari.
Where are you “from” right this minute? Jammies and hot chocolate? Laundry in stacks and too long a to-do list? Tell me.