I am from three hundred nacimentos–scenes of Christ’s birth, year round,
from santos watching over us on-fire Protestants, and a violin-playing goat.
I am from the big sky of the Southwest–God’s nave, my first cathedral–
big enough to hold my grief and all my gaping questions.
I am from the yucca and the bluebonnet, both.
I am from backbreaking sacrifices and loud interruptions,
from the reader, the teacher, the linguist, the lavisher.
I’m from the last bite of salt + savory and dinner-table history lessons
and really, every space turned classroom.
I’m from “why be anyone else?” and “a fool does not take correction”
and “I love you a bushel and a peck.”
I’m from the sarcasm that can disarm or pierce by my own hand.
I’m from the desert and a long boat ride,
from tamales y chile con carne and Nürnberger sausages.
From the time she sang on the piano and the time she prayed the prayer
and the time they told him his brownness was better off with sawdust than grammar rules.
I am from that one gold-leafed portrait we bought the week he died,
crying in the gallery because he would have bought it no matter what.
I’m from the ones who would buy flowers, not bread, if they were starving.
Today I am linking up with some lovely voices over at SheLoves Magazine. I hope you’ll read along, or even join! Find the other pieces (and the skeleton for this one) by clicking here.