I am from . . .

I am from rice cookers
With chopsticks and green tea
I am from a blended household of Africa and Asia
with creaking hardwood floors, white walls and straw mats
I am from annually nurtured tomato plants
And the fragrant purple honeysuckle,
Whose long gone limbs I remember
As if they were my own.

I’m from Sunday gatherings and vigorous conversations
From a duo of brothers and a quartet of sisters.
I am from sunup steaming coffee and afternoon frosty ice tea.
And from visiting relatives that sleep on the floor.

I’m from A Child’s Garden of Verses and The Golden Children’s Bible Story Book.
From my mom who says, “It’s okay to be poor, but you don’t have to be dirty.”
I’m from rocking chairs on front porches watching the evening.
From the Appalachian Mountains of East Tennessee
And the volcanic hills and rice paddies of northern Japan.
From seaweed-wrapped rice balls and cornbread with honey.

I am from Great Grandma Bowman weathering the depression
On 25 cents a day, a vegetable garden and a milk cow,
And from a wooden Hokkaido bear head
From my mother’s heart to my wall
A 25-pound item lugged through San Francisco customs
A gift for my mother, her 5-year delayed gratification.
Now she gives back to me as she seems to say “Well done.”

By Virginia Noell Elliott