I am from

by The Hatter

I am from towering shelves of books that cast dark shadows in every room of my house, from jazz music seeping past the door of my mother’s study and from the crackle of yellowed pages turning in my father’s room.

I am from shiny black lockers and dull gray linoleum, from words sharp as knives being tossed around as if they mean nothing, and from the echo of basketballs hitting tarmac, from the clang of a metal hoop as some tall, unidentified figure scores a basket.

I am from bushy-tailed squirrels who scamper across tree branches, from the harsh crunch of shoes crushing dead leaves, from the brief zooms of passing cars and from the reassuring smell of freshly mown grass and the sweet scent coming from the rosebush outside my house.

I am from green eyes, dark hair, Hitchcock thrillers, go away please sweetie I’m trying to concentrate, music, I need some coffee RIGHT NOW, books, stop making fun of my accent, math, oh God I hope I don’t end up on the freeway, faculty meetings, come lay the table, I love you and goodnight.