I am from horseradish mustard, from RC Cola and hot dogs for dinner five nights a week.
I am from the front porch swing, slivers of sunlight shining through the slats of the shades.
I am from the cool caverns of the old factory, presses thumping like the cold heart of a steel giant.
I am from Sunday escapes into the country to see the geese, orchards heavy with russet flecked apples. From Joyce and George and a big boat Chrysler that never starts.
I am from games of kick the can in the streetlights, and the gaping dark mouth of the old barn out back. From peering through the chain link fence at the inviting green lawns on Ellicott Ave, dying to roll in the soft grass.
I am from candles, and incense, and old women thumbing their rosaries in the early morning shadows of the church.
From placing the statue of Mary in the bedroom window, to guarantee a sunny day.
I’m from Pietravairano, and Austria-Hungary, from fried bologna, and chicken dumpling soup.
From the murmur of the crowd on an autumn night, the glow of the stadium lights, and stolen kisses in the shadow of the porch.
I am from long nights staring at the ceiling, listening to Simon and Garfunkel, and dreaming of girls in plaid skirts.
I am from the top drawer in the dresser, where the broken watches lie among black and white photos, and Dad’s old Air Force pins, making time stand still.