I am from honeysuckle,
from the taste of crabapples that grew up the hill.
(Sour and numb,
it dried my mouth.)
I am from the brown fur of deer
that peeked between green leaves,
the endless rows of books
that transported me to another world.

I'm from nectar and damp earth,
from hooting owls and fuzzy rabbits.
I'm from the shock of hard ground on my spine.
I'm from the sweet smell of jasmine
that grew in big pots,
the faint tang you can taste before a thunderstorm.
I'm from the heat of summer
and chill of winter in one week.

I'm from the sticky, bitter smell of rosin,
from the smooth melody of black and white keys.
From the toenail my brother lost
to a garden brick,
the surgery he had to help him breathe.

Under a sky of a million white specks,
a mirage of broken moments,
a series of panicked memories.
I am from trips across the world,
cultivated towards perfection,
just another branch on a family tree.