“Today, my professor asked me where I was from,” Alayna explained to me over the phone. “I replied, ‘Centreville, Virginia,’ and he said, ‘No, where are you from?’ I didn’t know what he meant so I just sort of glared at him. ‘Where are you from’, he asked again, ‘What are the things that brought you here? What are the moments that make you who you are?’ I had never really thought about that, have you? Where are you from, Caroline?”
I am from nights of cuddles under fuzzy blankets that dissolve like Smarties on your tongue. I am from the honey glow of street lights that sticks to your fingertips so long you forget what made them sticky. I am from drawers of fluffy pink ballet tights that sit like cotton candy.
I am from sorry being said in the form of silent, doughy peanut butter cookies. I am from asking the grownup’s not to talk about the scary things in front of my fluffy Webkinz. I am from building three story mall complex’s at the dining room table.
I am from angsty, splattered cottage cheese hitting my closed bedroom door. I am from falling asleep on Dad’s stomach in the music room. I am from sleeping masks on scary train rides. I am from holding hands triumphantly at the end of a 5k.
I am from foosball games with Muppets in the background. I am from stingpong games on New Year’s Eve. I am from a creepy wooden parrot that put four people in a twin bed. I am from rooftops overlooking a taffy sunset with whispered words. I am from bowls of chili eaten solely with Frito spoons. I am from croquet on Easter with grass-stained white shoes.
I am from sitting outside a dimmed front porch to make sure the screen door whines to a close. I am from an hour and thirty-eight minute long phone calls on a Thursday night. I am from raves in basements to Christmas trap music. I am from magic cruises with glass elevators. I am from desolate cornfields on Homecoming night.
I am from curling iron burns that look like scales. I am from stiff lashes that adorn the bottom of a makeup drawer like confetti. I am from thick hair that breaks hair brushes like toothpicks. I am from a kitchen with scuffs from tap shoes. I am from green rooms with couches like Venus flytraps. I am from pointe shoes outworn from holding up too much but never enough. I am from scripts annotated so much that there is more of my scribbles than the playwright’s.
I am from IV fluid bags sloshing with bass guitar chords. I am from orange-haired mermaid blankets in time guzzling hospitals. I am from talking too loud in the examination room.
I am from over-reading glances. I am from friendzone playlists hovering around Wattpad stories. I am from a love of the word unrequited.
I am from broken, silver anklets. I am from a nerf gun war amidst bean bag boulders and table trenches. I am from hiding under cars that sit under stars. I am from a girl group with dreams of making it big. I am from long talks in parked cars. I am from photoshoots on the brick wall. I am from “Blister in the Sun” bouncing off the shelves of a pottery room. I am from ripped, red velvet curtains patched with gaff tape.
I am from spilling secrets like mochas and still forgetting to put the top on.
I am from loving others far too hugely. I am from loving myself far too sparingly.
Where are you from?