I am from books,
from Red Rose tea,
and hand me downs.
I am from the pale grey corner house with the red front door and the enormous, gorgeous tree pushing up the foundation while it littered the narrow back yard with fragrant, delicious cherries.
I am from the towering evergreens, the sturdy yet delicate tulips whose annual visit heralded the coming of brighter skies.
I am from patriotic warriors and lovers of family, from Laura and Elizabeth, from Vaughn and Alfred.
I am from the practical and the caring.
From “If you your lips would keep from slips five things observe with care: of whom you speak, to whom you speak, and how, and when, and where.” and “Rest your voice.”
I am from straightforward, unornamented, “be there when the doors are open” faith.
From honest love, true generosity and from insidious self-righteousness and conformity as a conviction. From closed minds and open hearts.
I’m from western Washington, whose temperate climes spoke of home to an Englishwoman and offered welcome contrast from strident weather to wandering east coasts sons.
I’m from Yorkshire pudding and leg of lamb and
flat apple pie,
from chicken a la king with plenty of tarragon and from whole wheat pizza.
From a dark encounter in a London bomb shelter that led to a 50 year marriage,
from a blind date with Vietnam Vet,
from an ancient woman of prayer and a man of airplanes who sacrificed dreams for family, from a woman of foolish fears and words of wisdom.
I am from a five foot long shelf stuffed to overflowing with mismatched photo albums and memory books, where my face and others somewhat like it are preserved in time over one hundred years and are periodically brought out with smiles, tears, and laughter.
I got this from Lime, who liked it so much, she did it twice.