Where I'm From #248 with Nina B. Lichtenstein

Where I’m From #248 By Nina B. Lichtenstein Inspired by George Ella Lyon I am from overfilled ashtrays from Dunhill butts and gin, (bootlegged in our basement) I am from the apartment on the second floor, right. The key dangling from my neck, I am lonely, and hungry, too. I am from the sprawling lilac tree blooming outside our door, fragrant in spring, it always summons and invites me up, (Where I discover warm bodies in a tiny nest perched on top.) I'm from all night parties, grown-ups snoring on our couch, And sleeping in late on weekends, while I find food with friends. From pappa with his missing fingers, and mamma’s long, slender legs I’m from silence over dinner, and many things unsaid. From “go to your room” and “go outside and play.” I’m from Epicurious, but the pleasure was not for me (but curiosity was!) I’m from Norway, where families ski on Sundays, everyone except us. But when pappa flips crêpes in the cast iron skillet, I’m his princess and friends say, “he’s so cool, lucky you!” “No sweets for me,” calls mamma, while I lick my fingers and the entire bowl, too. From pappa’s hidden heaps of unpaid bills, tax, and collectors’ notes in the mail. The shame my mother internalized that summer he went to jail. Yet, so full of joy, our family albums prove good times were had by all. Curated fun, celebrated memories, a symbol of her will to never fall. Now stacked, dusty, in my mother’s nursing home room at last, My sons sit by her side and learn about her endurance from the past.