Poem

I don't normally share poetry type stuff that I write with the rest of the world but I wanted to put this one out there for your consumption. This is something that I wrote while in a writer's workshop that one of the other volunteers put on. The prompt was to write using the phrase "I Am From" and we had about 5minutes to do it. This is what I came up with, it comes from a very near, dear and nostalgic part of me. 

I Am From

I am from a frantically packed car that never seemed to hit the road on time. From the last piece of luggage in the trunk, to Mom’s final holler to all family members to go to the bathroom and grab a snack. The one hour drive to the boarder while listening to tunes on the radio and watching the grimy streets of Detroit pass by the window. I am from siblings fighting over who gets to scratch the bridge ticket this time around, and feeling extra special when the discount was anything more than 50 cents off a gallon of gas. I am from the fields of tomatoes, corn, wheat, tobacco that waved in the wind past Windsor. I am from the turn off of the highway, and the long stretch of farm country that separated us from liberation. The anticipation of arrival, and the smell of clean air blowing in from windows rolled down and music turned up. I am from the satisfying crunch of the gravel driveway as it takes the weight of our loaded family minivan. I’m from the first hello to the lake and dipping our toes in to see if it was too cold or not to jump in right then and there. I’m from that musty cottage smell that seems to inhabit all places like this, and the smell that can only be replicated here. I am from a screened in porch, and springy grass, and the hammock. I’m from drippy, drippy, ice cream cones. I’m from the old stone wall and the sand dune, and the rocking chairs and the sunfish sailboat. I’m from sea glass and long contemplative walks on the beach. I’m from lake storms, and bon fires, and my first drink. I’m from my cousins who might as well have been siblings, and aunts and uncles who were really more like mentors, and grandparents who would never pass up the chance to tell us a story about the time and places that they have come from. I’m from loud, disruptive, chaotic family meals where everyone talks over one another and yet everyone is heard. From “pass the salt” and “I’d like one more please” and “grab me some cake...but not too big!” I’m from coffee on the musty old couch, with candles all around, as the breeze drifts through the screens and carries with it the symphony of crickets and waves and wind and the neighbors barbequing next door. I’m from late night euchre games with Canadian rules and steal the deal and dick the dealer. I’m from the bunky, the safe space for the chilluns, and the hum of mosquitoes and the final whispered secrets of the night before drifting off to sleep.

So there is your post for the day. This is me attempting to get better about posting. Still no word on the photos for the last one but I will get them up as soon as I can. 

Hugs and smooches, 

Claire