After George Ella Lyon
I am from green Coleman stoves and
hand-carved cherry canoe paddles that
left their ribbons decorating the
living room floor of our first home
because I didn’t have a shop and you
held the wood while I worked.
I’m from piles of quiet books on the
nightstand to loud family dinners
that end in laughter and arguments
over who is or is not doing the dishes
because I did them last time. No, I did.
From shut up or I’ll hit you
to wait ‘till your father gets home.
I am from photographs and faded letters
from war, kept in cardboard boxes and
passed down from sisters that lost a
brother to a daughter that never that knew
her uncle to me.
I’m from turkey dinner with all the trimmings,
including two kinds of dressing,
homemade cranberry jam, snuck
German biscuits, and four kinds
of pie for dessert.
I am from when she said yes.
I am from the damp smell of
October mornings
and the crunch of autumn leaves.
I am from rivers that flow somewhere
but nowhere in particular and carry
me along their meandering journey.
