Where Do I Come From? Parts 1 and 2

Where Do I Come From?
Part 1
By: Colleen Robertson

I am from dirty, striped furniture,
From evening WWE and horror movies galore.
I am from the sheet-covered windows, dark, cold, and smelly.
I am from the red “Strawberry” cactus, dying beside the “Snowy” white one.
I’m from a sleeping parent and tall blondes,
From lazy Dad and hard-working Mom.
I’m from the nightly parties and my big boy’s boots,
From “Sorry I needed your money for cigarettes,” and “Get away from the T.V.”
I’m from the dead grass in Kentucky, and an unwanted history, five-second peanut butter sandwiches and instant Jell-O.
From the “abusive father” excuse from Dad about why he’s so lazy, and the pathetic response for my question, “What happened to my $40?” when I get home from daycare after my birthday.
Cracked picture frames, empty photo albums, a collection of casino cards, clutter my home. No pictures of family, no pictures of me. No memories except the ones I so desperately want to erase, hidden in the back of my mind…


Where Do I Come From?
Part 2
By: Colleen Robertson

I am now from the thrilling
page-turners of Stine,
From Toby Keith concert souvenirs, and
countless movies of all kinds.
I am now from decorative ceramic cardinals,
gleaming bright red and clean,
soft patterned furniture,
so relaxing to rest on.
I am now from small bonsai trees, sweet red roses,
and fragrant poppies.
From juicy red tomatoes, multicolored petunias,
and soft emerald grass.
I’m now from Spaghetti Wednesdays
and slightly slanted eyes.
From Mitsuno Sumaki and Yasutaro Shinhara,
sailed from distant Hiroshima.
I’m now from the short-tempered hotheads,
and elaborate, sugary desserts.
From “Turn down your voice,” and
“I wish I could draw like you.”
I’m from stained glass windows, shinning angel faces,
and long, hard pews, always full,
Wednesday classes, brief visits from the priest.
I’m from bluegrass Kentucky and chop-sticked Japan,
Spicy hot lasagna and sweet homemade fried rice.
From the metal calendar Tug-of-War,
a painful accident of my one-eyed grandmother,
The fascinating tales of first-hand experiences of World War 2,
of my late veteran grandfather.
The coins in my drawer, are all that remains of my grandpa,
Photos stuffed in old shoeboxes, torn and faded,
Recalling the laughter of the joyous memories.
Hawaiian Ginger fragrance of the most saddening death,
Drawings of friends and family that won’t be forgotten.
Irreplaceable memories that can’t be traded,
More precious than gold,
More rare than the pink diamond,
But more numerous than a cubic zirconia.
This is where I’m from… now.