I am from hand-stitched throw pillows,

from vintage Coca Cola machines and the store that my father lost.
I am from water-stained walls and rusting window bars.
(Built from my great grandfather’s hands, deteriorating,
it feels too familiar.)
I am from the century-old rose bush,
the night-blooming jasmine
growing freely and wildly against the fence
as Mother taught me to mimic.

I am from feral cats and double-jointed fingers,
From Polizzi and Lanassa and Khan.
I’m from spilled wine and broken glasses,
extensive video game knowledge and inherited skill,
from Beauty fades, but knowledge is forever and It’s always better to give than to receive
I’m from the multitude of missed Sunday masses,
but knowing that I am a woman for others.

I’m from immigrant mentalities,
Mimi’s baked macaroni and spinach Madeline.
From the carriage that ended Thanksgiving for my grandmother’s heart,
the dog that ate better than my aunt.

In my grandma’s attic lay the dust-collecting photo albums
filled to the final page
with faces I do not, cannot, recognize,
a collection of memories not of my own, but of those I love.
I am from stories yet to be heard,
stances and prospects yet to be constructed,
from the concept of relying upon nobody,
handed nothing except the corner of someone else’s chance.