Where I Am From

Where I am From
I am from the back porch swing, from cold Stewart’s Root Beer, and fireflies we caught at dusk.
I am from the big brick house with large bay windows, looking out on a quiet street.
I am from bluebells picked in Norway, the peaceful Hudson River where we listened to jazz and blues, dancing by the water.
I am from rice grud on Christmas Eve, toasty warm as we searched our bowls for the hidden almond, from Hagens and Hendricksons, Norwegian, Swedish, American.
I am from sitting by the fireplace as the adults laugh and talk until the embers slowly die and dancing through the house to the polka, swing, or any music that moved our restless feet.
From a long line of proud, headstrong women and doting mothers, from Master’s Degrees and never settling.
I am from the passive Methodists who rarely yell “Amen” and quietly pass the offering plate. I am from religion you must know but do not feel until you are older.
I am from suburbia, upstate New York, with Scandinavian blood coursing through my veins. I am from kransekake, lefse, and boller.
I am from the clinking of my father’s wedding ring on a frosted stein to the beat of Van Morrison’s music that filled the house. I am from the gentle hugs of my mother whose scent of night cream enveloped me.
I am from pillow case races down the stairs with my sister whom I could never seem to keep up with. I am from my Bessa who knew every bird like a friend, and my Far who slept much too late on Christmas mornings.
I am from childhood snapshots in a photo album that has pages waiting to be filled.