I am from small towns and churches and farmland.
I am from cornfields that stretch on forever; from sniffing Great Grandma's flowers; from cold water and warm earth and muddy toes dug into Great Grandpa's vegetable garden.
I am from an even smaller, back-woods town, from logging and hard times, from alcohol and apple pie.
From the bonny hills of Scotland, from porridge and scones and scotch and tea time.
I am from many moves, many times, many homes, many schools, many fresh starts that felt stale and awkward and uncomfortable and lonely.
I am from Dairy Queen ice cream birthday cakes and unspoken love.
From 97% scores on math tests, "Where's the other 3%?" and never being enough.
I am from stubbornness and grudge-holding, from being mad so long, anger loses all meaning and transgressions are forgotten, but rifts remain.
I am from a long line of child abuse that ended a generation ago and statutory rape and teen pregnancy.
From "you're the oldest: you should know better" and "set an example" and "go to your room"; from yelling and silent treatment, but never hitting.
I am from swinging my feet while church members sang, looking around at women's hats, not comprehending what I was witnessing.
I am from photo albums dusty from lack of attention, of carefully written descriptors long forgotten, of faces no longer recognized.
I've read a few posts this week that use Fred First Floyd's form prompt and really enjoyed them. If you would like to do the same, link up on Schmutzie's blog.