Where I’m from is riding my bike no-handed around the cul-de-sac sprawl.

Where I’m from is the tops of maple branches swaying under boyhood weight.

Where I’m from is the blacktop burning summer feet as we raced to our neighbors’ pool.

Where I’m from is the cellophane solar cooker that fed the backyard ants.

Where I’m from is buried treasure in a forgotten drawer: pens and scissors and rubber bands and half used chapstick tubes and keys to lost locks.

Where I’m from is the closet under the stairs, where holidays go to hide.

Where I’m from is the line I drew in the carpet to keep your mess from mine.

Where I’m from is the sharpie titled CD I kept hidden under my bed.

Where I’m from is the basket where my father put his watch and his keys and his knife and his money clip and his coin purse with the little metal cross that never got spent.