I am from the bobby pin that sits on top of the glassed white-framed mirror like the only pencil in a pencil pouch

From the terrible touch of the towel

I am from the couch that sits

From widening, tidying creativity

I am from the fresh and not hot or cold smell of the house

I am from my sister’s blank white soft and rough blanket like a deer’s fur

From all the cooking skills and fixing skills

I am from the calm and hype music that played in my head

From all the paint under my bed

I am from my mother’s womb

I am from my mother’s fried chicken and chicken stew

From the spiciness

From the fresh eggs with toasted bread on the side

I am from all the math and from all the Greek and Latin words in my head

I am from me trying to grasp everything I love