Where I'm From

I am from the night skies,

From the amber notes and crisp air.

I am from a pink room, one which my mom says

That its colors clash with the rest of the house.

I am from the orange tree at my grandparent’s yard.

From the sweet citrus fruit that grew

On the sturdy old branches.

I am from long family dinners

And sitting at the table for hours.

I am from unpredictable changes and few explanations.

From cooperating and working together.

I am from Nancy’s and Jose Antonio’s branch.

I am from a bipolar home,

From thoughts that have a temper of its own.

I am from “keep your back straight” and because-i-said-so phrases.

From the slamming of a door

To the pillow stained with a silent tear.

I am from thoughts and feelings so strong that they have their own voice.

I am from the wooden benches of the church.

From the belief that something powerful is really there and around us.

This is how I was raised.

I am from the boxed albums.

Ones that are kept away in the bottom of the book shelf.

Stacked away like files, but happy memories stored aside.

They are kept in a darkened spaces,

Were a hand rarely dares to venture on its own.

The images stop abruptly at a certain year when we were young.

The blank spaces spread out like the vast ocean.

They keep waiting for the set of year that will probably never join.