I am from cold feet on bamboo floors, warm cuddles and card games, a “for now” home built by a friend. I am from returning favors: a neighbor who needs a ride, one who shoveled our snow. I am from here - from the drip, drip, drip of invasive maples disrupting restless sleep. From a river, dammed.
I am from mismatched furniture, moved cross country, back again, and returned. From “lets wait till the move is permanent,” priced out, pushed north. I am from the sound of my mother opening the front door, arms full of tupperware and washed socks.
I am from starting over (and over and over). “From away.” From rooting so my son does not have to shiver as I do at the question “where are you from?” I am from seeing a garden bed through the season to early autumn harvest. And maybe even doing the same thing again next year.