I am from my father’s arm swinging an axe to cut the logs to heat our home.

I smell the dry, flakey sawdust from the creation of our table,

the fresh, earthy mulch filling crevices of our yard.

I am from my mother's busy hands cooking dinner, cleaning dishes, and helping with homework.

I taste the candy like sweetness yet pepper like spice in the stir fry for dinner,

the treats she recieves from students after putting in eight hours of work each day.

I am from my brother’s basketball bouncing and shaking the floors of our house.

I hear his shoes squeak on the court as he sprints down the sidelines,

his piercing yet playful whistle escaping from his lips to the tune of “We are the Champions.”

I am from my little brother’s new beats on his drum and his childish chuckle.  

I see his wrist and fingers move up and down with the rhythm of his drumsticks,

the smile growing wider on his face until his mouth bursts open in laughter.

I am from my grandma’s comfort and her blue quilt wrapped around me as we watch a movie.

I feel her soft hand holding mine as we walked through the zoo when I was five,

her warm body embracing mine in a hug.