I am from lean-to chicken coops, from cheetos and Plum Candy, and Lip Trip to protect my lips from the wind as I snowboard down Sun King.
I am from the cozy little, one room with a loft, log cabin, nestled by the chilly resevoir.
I am from the aspen trees, the heart shaped leaves, fluttering and clapping in the breeze.
I am from ambling down unknown (by us) country roads, and fun-loving, from Summer and Dirty Al and Grandma Bunny.
I am from the eating dinner past eight p.m and laughing at bathroom talk at the table, and having belching contests with my two sisters.
From being told there were children somewhere else in the world that were starving while I refused to eat my ginger flavored veggie burrito, and “can’t never could.”
I am from the Bible Church, memorizing Psalm 100, having a puppet show for Sunday School, and singing the Music Machine. (Theres’ no other gadget that you’ve ever seen.)
I’m from Colorado and California, from fried burritos, chips, salsa, and beer, and lush, colorful salads.
From the concert at the Vineyard, where my best friend told me about the drummer, and I noticed him checking me out, and he later became my husband, and from a mother and father who prayed for him when I was a little girl with pigtails.
I am from Grandpa Al’s old chest, the drawers in the buffet table, my mother’s knick knack cabinet, from the blood, sweat and tears of three days of labor, from being fought for, from being prayed for, from being happily given away.