Using the structure of this poem for writing inspiration today.
I come from a tree lined street with once modest homes
which we left each morning to walk to school or play
in the woods that seemed vast but weren’t.
I come from parents who chose me from
a convent where the nuns called me Mary Ellen and my hair was strawberry blonde and wavy, or so my parents say.
I come from years abroad and dinners at home,
from as many new experiences as my mother could squeeze in
and a simple cottage on the rocky New England coast
to which we still return every summer.
I come from questions and statements,
from a father who didn’t have one of his own but somehow knew
how to be his daughter’s quiet hero.
I come from books and nooks where curling up with a story
and finding quiet is necessary.
I come from curtseys and tradition and
a mother who taught me that being naughty is just fine sometimes.
I come from gardeners and northerners
from stories repeated and shared
from feisty, fiercely independent grandmothers and a grandfather I never met
from happy tears
and heart break and healing.
I come from a place where
an open mind, a gentle heart, and faith,