Where I'm From

Jill Hackman

I am from the yellow kitchen stool,

from Kool-aid, and blueprints from my father’s office.

I am from the dank, dark water of the backyard stream,

from the fireflies glistening at night.

I am from the purple lilacs in the spring,

the rich pine sap on the tree swing.


I am from football Saturdays and spaghetti Sundays,

from the Meeker nose and the Hauser chin,

from Kenny and Peggy and Shorty Shope from Frog Hollow.

I am from my mother’s wordy wisdom, my father’s forethought,

and stubbornness in spades.

I’m from this too shall pass and don’t take yourself so seriously,

from hurry up and speak slowly.

I am from apologetic prayers and now I lay me down to sleep

and not perfect, just forgiven.


I’m from the Pennsylvania Dutch

(and from the German as far back as can be traced),

from chicken wings and manicotti.

From the sharp, yet partially color blind eyes of my father,

and the fractional finger of my grandfather, lost to the brickyard saw.

In the hall closet, packed with albums,

years and faces are intermixed,

a sea of stories to carry me on my own journey.


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