I am from haphazardly made crafts,
endlessly praised.
From makeshift forts,
whose ceilings hung low and wide.
I am from the year 2005,
from socialites and tabloids.
From presidential debates and natural disasters,
which I was much too young to understand.
I’m from the forest behind my Grandmother’s house,
the very one that held my childhood fantasies.
I am from the salty minestrone soup my Grandfather used to serve me.
From code words to inside jokes,
I am from the sanctuary in which I called home.
I am from the art projects that no longer entertain me,
the hunger that was satisfied by macaroni and cheese.
While I do not identify with these parts of myself any longer,
I am proud to be the person that had embraced them.
Word Count: 146
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