From be quiet now and you cannot wear your cowboy shirt to church.
I am from Amazing Grace and Old Wooden Cross. From stained glass windows and small hot rooms, where they taught Jesus and served punch.
I’m from the Golden State and NOLA, cornbread and iced tea.
From the woman we called Memor who saw my Grandaddy on the side of the road and picked him up, the tiny spit fire who sold encyclopedias to support her family. Who died a quiet death of alzheimer’s, surrounded by her three daughters. One of which is my mother. I am from my father, who was an artist, a soldier, an asshole. I am from his same stock even when I try not to be.
I am from a storage unit in a dusty place. Disarray of memories and old pieced quilts. Fishing rods and dress shoes. The world in a dark square, spiders and silky strands of their construction, holding our family in its web. I am from the sadness and light, the impossible and complex.