Where I'm From

Chrissy and Me

I am from chenille bedspreads, from Barbie dolls and banana-seat bicycles.

I am from seven children crammed into a back-split, semi-detached house in suburbia with pear trees growing along the back fence and open space beyond; an open-concept school at one end of the street and horses out to pasture at the other. 

I am from the geraniums, the pungent, red flowers filling our bow window, and poinsettias spending the summer leafless and dead-looking in the basement.

I am from bacon and pancakes on Saturday mornings and doors slammed in anger, from Pat and Winkie and Frank.

I am from hot tempers and biting remarks that sting and never really heal, and missiles thrown across rooms. I am from drawn curtains and cold compresses and visits to the psych wing.

From "you made your bed, you lie in it," and "a piece off a wheelbarrow."

I am from altar calls. Conviction of guilt, repentance, forgiveness and renewal. (Repetition optional.) I am from abiding faith.

I'm from Murdochville, from Burlington, from northern Ontario and Scotland. I'm from butter tarts, potatoes, and Chelsea Rolls.

From the woman who delivered freshly baked bread by bicycle as a girl, to help her family through the Great Depression, from the man who wanted to be a soldier, wanted to be an engineer but who became neither because of chronic ear infections before Penicillin, and the woman who nearly died but came back with a deep passion to serve God.

I am from haphazardly collected photographs without dates or names, stuffed into shoe boxes, crinkled, faded, lost. Perhaps best forgotten?

(The prompt for this exercise can be found here.)