I am from

by

After hopping around some blogs, I found a new kind of poem floating around. I traced the original template to this site. It was a beautiful exercise and a very personal tribute to my own history. I’d like to share it with you. This poem is for Mama and Daddy.

I am from Nancy Drew mysteries, from Nido and wooden sofas stripped off its pillows.

I am from the home on the hilltop, with green gates that sang when moved back and forth, with screen doors and jalousie windows that kept me rooted in its cove but reminded me of the possibilities that could be.

I am from the tall Indian trees, the nectar of pink and yellow santan flowers that teased my childlike curiosity.

I am from Sunday is Family Day and burying noses in books, from Josephine and Ito and Jose.

I am from the overly dramatic mood swings and making up with a hug, a kiss, an I-love-you.

From stand-in-the-corner and Jesus-is-your-best-friend.

I am from a room lit only by candles, my grandfather leading the rosary with his booming voice, while we all knelt and responded and my knees hurt beneath my school uniform.

I’m from the city hospital and summers at hot springs, Smurfs cereal and tuyo.

From the dropping of a santol on my sister’s head to see if it would bounce, the silly dances of my father to make babies laugh, and the waking up on weekends to my mother’s beautiful piano-playing. (I would stay in bed long after I woke up, just closing my eyes some more and listen as her fingers would fly over the ivories and engulf me in that melody that is home.)

I am from the pile of worn-out photo albums, from diaries of a world that seemed to crash with broken hearts and rise again with new crushes, from letters that have traveled the world and settled at my doorstep, from bedtime stories and joyful reminiscing over mahjong games, words that tell me I can always come home, that make me proud and happy and grateful of my family’s legacy of love and laughter.

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