I am from my backyard, where I spent years of my life beating snowball bushes and swinging on the whip-like branches of our willow tree. I can remember the bitter taste of the wild berries growing through our neighbor’s rusty chain link fence. Summer brought memories of the swing set and barbeques, and winter dropped the soft blankets of snow we sledded on in old man Ted’s backyard.

I am from baseball games and roller-skating up and down the smooth black pavement in front of our house. I recall racing to the end of the street with friends to build bike jumps out of the hard, rocky strip of dirt next to the old horse pen that housed the dirty white horse we called Tinker Toy. On the fourth of July, we hurled water balloons across my aunt’s backyard and ate juicy, pink watermelon and golden hotdogs. On Christmas we would sit curled up in the warm house, the smell of burning candles and the welcoming scent of baking cookies lingering around, while we watched the snow float gently to the ground.

I am from a much different place than now. From a place that hangs a detailed picture on the walls of my memory. A place that replays the footage of my childhood, allowing me to remember this place with the finest detail. Memories of friends, memories of holidays, and memories of family are all things I remember about this place, a place I call home.