Anyway, Loni, here’s my contribution, and thanks for inspiring us!

I am from tumbleweeds,
from Wrangler jeans
and scuffed red sneakers.

I am from the new subdivision
where Denver’s ragged edge
petered out into prairie.
(Clean-lined, symmetrical,
it smelled like baked earth
and new carpeting.)

I am from buffalo grass,
from prairie dog holes chewed
right through the bike trail
beside the Cherokee oak.

I am from biscuits with chocolate gravy
and musical puns,
from Mema and Aunt Genie
and Missy-Merry-Molly.

I am from the sing-out-louds and the what-a-good-flavors.
I am from the-crusts-are-good-for-you and the stay-in-the-right-lanes.

I am from the Sunday morning bus
that took us girls to the Baptist church,
from plastic cups drained of grape juice
and stacked higher than our heads.

I am from Alamogordo where they tested the bombs,
from south Georgia where the soil is red
and jeweled lizards skitter up the brick.
I am from fried okra
and rocky road sheet cake
without the marshmallows
to make it too sweet.

From the time my sister hid
an Easter egg
in my pink purse
that matched my shoes,
and then hid
the purse.
From the crayons we melted
in our overhead light
casting rainbows
on the yellow walls,
from sunburns and freckles.

I am from the albums on Aunt Genie’s bottom shelf,
page after page of the Almand ears
sticking out like pot handles,
from my mother’s shy smile
between her grinning brothers and sisters,
from my looks-too-young-to-be-a-father daddy
standing in front of cargo planes that matched his fatigues.
I am from two kids in love,
three little girls in homemade bonnets,
meadowlarks singing their joy across the blue prairie of the sky.