# data[].attributes.body
I am from the wooden cabinets on my mom’s kitchen (an everyday item in your home)

from my washburn guitar placed at the corner of my room and the beatles’ songs playing around the house  (products or everyday items in your home)

I am from the small town of Heredia at the northwest from the Central Valley (description of your home)

The smell of cinnamon rolls while they are on the oven (a detail about your home – a smell, taste, or feel)

I am from the hydrangeas planted on my moms garden (plant, flower, natural item)

The Tabebuia tree with its yellow petals covering the street (plant or tree near your home)

whose long gone limbs I remember

as if they were my own.

I’m from going out on the streets with my family with suitcases every New Years Eve and rock concerts with my dad after school (a family tradition and family trait)

From my brother mixing watercolor paints on the backyard and my mom cooking on Sundays afternoons listening to David Bisbal songs  (family members)

I’m from my grandma's sewing classes and my aunts performances of belly dance at the living room (family habits)

and from my abuelita’s  banana bread after school. (family habit)

I’m from the love my parents taught me and the passion for nature my mom has always reminded  me  (things you were told as a child)

and the ‘‘In My Life’’ song my dad would play out loud in the car on the way to the house’(a song or saying you learned as a child)

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I am from the woolen blanket that's always on my bed no matter the season

from the farm that i grew up on and the house i moved to where i turned into a person

I am from the sickly sweet smell which is a result of my sisters constant baking

and the warm feeling of sitting by the fire my father always lights

I am from the two potted plants that stand tall by the front door of my house

The archway of ivy that greets you before you enter the woods

whose swirling limbs I remember as if they were my own and miss ever so dearly.

I’m from bwya cawl a pice ar y maen and eating a roast dinner every sunday without fail

From my mothers anger and my fathers forgiveness

I’m from the yearly batch of homemade jam my mother makes from a recipe that she  inherited from her mother before her And my brothers tendency to never take anything too seriously

and from my sister pretending she isn’t a sensitive soul and from me feeling everything too deeply.

I’m from believing in Santa Claus until i was 12 and hating going to bed

and the saying “mae fywid yn byr”

I’m from singing the birthday song in both welsh and english everytime and wishing for the same thing whilst making a wish of any kind

I’m from wales and my grandparents magical garden

The act of crying when you’re frustrated and drinking green tea

From when my brother left for a trip to Canada without saying goodbye

And the time where i felt like i would never recover but that thought slowly left when i felt the warm embrace of my fathers loving hug

I’m from the feeling of regret when you open up to someone and the promise that i would never do it again

From the faded pictures but never the faded memories

The box of what my mother calls junk under my bed and the late nights i would spend going through it

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Soy de nubes celestes, pintadas sobre mi cabeza

Y de un libro agreste, que me hizo imaginar al mundo.

De la esencia de mi cama, por donde mi día empieza

Y de aquel caramelo en un recuerdo profundo.

Vengo de Nicaragua; de su verdor hasta el horizonte.

De su esencia de agua, de sus montañas sin fin.

De aquel Vaho cuyo plátano me era un festín,

Y de sacuanjoches en los madroños del monte.

¡Qué alegría es recordar!

Qué alegría es añorar.

Soy de esperar nochebuena, y de algún guardabarranco.

Soy de mi abuela Lola, y de sus telas en blanco.

De no salir de mi casa por temor a un delincuente.

Vengo de un barrio pobre, sin canciones de cuna,

De, por las noches, voltear a ver a la luna,

Por padecer de hambre y temores afluentes.

Soy de Nicaragua y de la sangre del pueblo.

De su esencia de agua, de conflicto sin fin.

De una tierra que nació alguna vez de la palma.

De un sueño afín en brumas y niebla.

Esperanza, a hoy, cernida en tiniebla.

Que no pudo tirar sus versos del alma.

Pero soy de mi hermano, y el juego feliz.

Soy de su foto guardada en mi cuarto.

Soy, de mi abuela, un aprendiz.

Y aquella cena con ellos que aparto

En mis recuerdos, en mis llantos.

Soy de aquel día de santos,

En cuyo seno reside la esperanza fría,

De que, de aquellas montañas, algún día,

Nicaragua pueda echar sus versos del alma,

Y que pueda renacer una vez más de la palma.

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Soy del jardín de mi casa, donde las mariposas y abejas llegan a disfrutar los colores vivos de las flores, soy de las recetas de cocina de mi abuela y de las vistas tan impresionantes y verdes que puedo observar a través de la ventana de mi cuarto.

Soy de un hogar de colores vivos, donde las paredes azules y naranjas predominan y te alegran el corazón que junto a las variedades de decoraciones se complementan perfectamente y crean una armonía impecable.

Soy de donde todos los adornos de porcelana y las pinturas que cuelgan en las paredes tienen un importante y hermoso significado.

Soy de una reluciente madera en el suelo te hace sentir como si estuvieses en una pista de patinaje, donde bailas a tu ritmo sin ninguna preocupación.

Soy del jardín que a veces parece una jungla.

Soy donde la complementación del verde vivo de la jungla y el café de la pista de patinaje, te hace conectar con la realidad y te recuerda lo hermosa y poderosa que es la naturaleza.

Soy el capullo de la planta amarilla enfrente del cuarto de mis papás que cada vez que sale el sol se abre para demostrar su grandiosa belleza.

Soy el árbol de aguacate que cada vez que viene el verano florece con flores blancas, que atrae bellas abejas, que bailan y zumban a su ritmo.

Soy la fuente en el centro del jardín que hace circular el agua y energías cuyos miembros, desaparecidos hace tiempo, recuerdo como si fueran mías.

Soy de una familia que todos los viernes se junta en la noche para jugar juegos de mesa y reír sin cesar, soy de una familia latina que ama la naturaleza y les gusta salir los domingos a caminar en las montañas para conectar con ellas.

Soy de mi padre que ama construir y cuidar su hermosa casita, soy de mi mamá que le dice a mi papá siempre con una hermosa sonrisa, ¨ahora que se te ocurrió hacer¨.

Soy de una pequeña familia que aunque seamos poquitos se apoyan y se aman con todo su ser.

Soy de una familia que le gusta ser sarcástica pero siempre está para uno para el otro.

Vengo de un lugar donde me apodaban “Nene” porque de pequeña no podía pronunciar su nombre y de una canción que con su letra y su melodía te dice que te ama con todo su corazón de chocolate.

Soy de una familia que ama decorar de navidad pero no les gusta recoger la decoración después.

Soy de Costa Rica y soy josefina.

Soy de un país que es conocido por su biodiversidad y hermosas playas.

Soy donde nos volvemos locos cuando es época de mamones chinos y amamos comer pejibayes.

Soy de dos jóvenes que se conocieron en vacaciones de verano y llevan 23 años de casados, soy un  anillo que lleva mi madre en sus delgados dedos que representan sus tres hijos que mi padre le regaló con mucho cariño y aprecio.

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I am from the guardian plushie that stays by my side every night

From the whistling sound of the rice cooker in the kitchen and the warmth of the cloud-soft blanket that embraced me.

I am from the small cozy apartment overshadowed by the hustle and bustle of the city that is covered with a layer of warm honey sunshine from the sunset every time I come home from school.

I am from the lingering smell of the desired beauty of the roses and chrysanthemums on the balcony.

The soft lesser bougainvillea glide like dancing in the wind in the entrance as a welcome

whose long gone limbs I remember

as if they were my own.

I’m from the steam that permeates the aroma of hotpot broth every Saturday night and a family that doesn't know how to clearly express their feelings through words but slowly learning how to

From my mother who always cares and is on my side and the father and brother who works hard to spoil me with presents that I want

I’m from the high expectation that slowly drags me to the hole of guilt and lack of safety and from the obligation to follow order as I myself a kid have nothing in my small bare hand that everything I have is actually given.

I’m from the belief that education is everything for the future and the teachings that you are only worthy of something if you achieve it yourself

And a song that grows with me with its words: short step, deep breath, everything is alright

I’m from the house overwhelmed by work that is never really full during weekdays

I’m from the land of gold and sea of ​​silver and from the prideful blood of dragons and fairies

And the warm, light broth and the tenderness of the meat in each bowl of pho

From  the musical notes imbued with happiness and sadness in the square blue room always bathed in moonlight and sunlight

The square blue room where time and space is only concept and the only thing that remains reality is me and my emotions

The cabinet above condenses the flow of time of this small individual, the secrets that this mouth hasn't found the courage to utter, and the Small hobbies that bring salvation in the darkest times.

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I am from the decoration of stars that I had in my room hanging from the ceiling that illuminated my entire room.

From the iron skillet my mom used to cook my favorite food and the set of knives that we never used, but was always there.

I am from many homes, I have moved several times, but my real home is in my country, Nicaragua. A simple but elegant white house, with a beautiful garden that my mom loves with all her soul, with my dad's rusty tools and with all the memories I left in my country that I will never experience again.

From the smell of roasted meat in the afternoons when my dad was in the mood, to the smell of salmon together with pepper when my parents felt like cooking, of the chocobananos that my mom made to lift my spirits and just being in my country was more than enough of a sensation.

I am from the small red flowers that decorated the entire entrance of my house and that my mom never neglected them, as if they were her own daughters.

The lemon tree we had in the backyard of my house, that with just a few lemons I could make a lemonade so rich and cold that it took away all my anxieties whose limbs, long gone, I remember as if they were my own.

I am from getting together with my maternal family to celebrate birthdays while eating very tough carne asada, but it was fun to see how we all struggled to eat it. I am of my color and physical characteristics, which represent my indigenous descent from my biological father, specifically from the "Miskitos" ethnic group in Nicaragua.

From my grandmother Georgina with an unbreakable temper, but with a wonderful gift in the kitchen that I miss and from my grandfather Leonel that we always shared the same passion for sweets, to the point that we used to spend all my allowance money on ice cream.

I'm a person who makes faces or is very expressive at any moment and laughs exaggeratedly as my whole family does and complains about the prices of everything whenever I have the opportunity.

I come from the lullabies my mom used to sing to me at bedtime, where she always said that if I didn't fall asleep "La Mona" (Central American legend) was going to take me away and the times my uncles told my mom to let me do mischief just so I would learn a lesson and the evangelical choruses I learned when I went to church with my grandmother Teresa.

I am from sitting at the table with my family and having chicken soup for lunch in the afternoons, even though it was the hottest day in the world.

I’m from Managua, Nicaragua, from my indigenous ancestor and from migrants.

From the “Arroz a la Valenciana'' that my mom used to cook even though it tasted bad, it tasted like home and the best fried chicken that my grandmother cooked only for me, her favorite grandchildren.

From all the stories that my grandfather used to tell me when he was in the army so many years ago, the stories about how he got shot so many times and the story about how he met my grandmother in the war.

From the pictures I have with my biological dad who I miss every single day since I left my country almost two years ago and the pictures when my mom was younger and she used to have fun just like me.

I am the photos, toys, notebooks, socks, clothes that I left under my bed without knowing that I will never be able to return to that place I call "home", because I cannot return to my country, because that house doesn't belongs to us right now and because all those memories were spontaneous and I would have loved to know that those days were going to be the last days that I could set foot in my country again.

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I once sat upon my Isle’s em’rald shores,

and a curious man asked of me,

where I am from.

Of where I feel free.

Of where my worries are none.

I began to ponder between my two worlds.

Should I dwell amid these seas so fair,

or amid the verdant mountains?

Is it where my kin pertain?

Or where I’ve grown most my days?

The irony in the question deep,

I do live here, don’t I?

Yet, I do co-exist with this divide.

This divide in my tongue,

and this divide in my eyes.

This divide in my world,

dividing me into two lives.

’Twas by this placid shore, from lands afar,

I heard the heroic folk’s call,

as resoundingly as they did in Ipiranga.

Is my identity bound by my blood,

or the experiences I withstood?

In one, I am the other,

so why can’t I be both?

One thing is certain:

I still am that curious man.

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I am from the clothesline covered in linen and socks

From hand-me-down dresses

and the baskets that line the top of the kitchen cabinets

I am from the overstuffed hallway closet that held the remedies to every childhood affliction

The smell of frying plantains and cafecitos with heaping spoonfuls of sugar,

just how Abuelo liked it.

I am from the blackberry brambles that yielded the juiciest fruit

at the cost of scratched hands that Mama would kiss better

The redwoods we would climb

whose long gone limbs I remember

as if they were my own.

I’m from knitted socks and nights full of music

From murder mystery shows watched late into the night

and my brothers who hug me and keep my secrets

I’m from jigsaw puzzles that take months to finish and slow mornings of coffee in our neighbor’s kitchen

From the endless games of solitaire and Chinese checkers

I’m from the “I’m sorry for bringing you here” and the “I wouldn’t change a thing”

and the “I love you more than salt” that would utter from my mother’s lips

as she hugged me tight enough to crack my back

I’m from a small town on the coast of California

and lands of Mexico and China, unknown to me,

and the island of Cuba.

Papas rellenas and yuca, fried the next morning

From the women whose names I inherited, and the baby who would have inherited them first

Her little footprints that hang on the wall

I’m from the cedar trees and the cupcake we place on her grave each year

I am from the gold locket I lost, somewhere under the old wooden floorboards in the red house that was painted a different color many years ago

The photos inside now buried in soil,

Where someday the earth will reclaim its children

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I am from the books my sister gifts me, filled with voices of women from our past

From the incense i burn to cleanse myself and the remedies my mom uses to heal us

I am from the big forest with the eternal lake in my back garden,

where we swam in the summer and skated in the winter

From the small fireplace that keeps us alive in the winter,

when our limbs are frozen, but hearts are warm

I am from the flowers in all shapes and colors in my childhood garden

The old apple tree in my grandma’s yard,

I would climb to find the birds nests,

whose long gone limbs I remember

as if they were my own

I’m from late dinners, in the long summer nights

the stories my grandpa tells over and over again

and the classical music from his gramophone,

that would always make him shed a tear

I'm from sick days on my grandparents couch, surrounded by love

I’m from the boys i have loved, and those who hurt me

From late night talks with my friends

And laughing till my stomach aches

From their love, support and advice

I’m from norse mythology and forest spirits, that protects us and keeps us alive

from my mother and grandmother and all the women before them

I’m from the Icelandic sagas and fairytales of my childhood

I’m from my own creativity,

The games i used to play, my paintings, my books

From the walks in the forest, as an escape from everything

The scrapes and scars on my knees and my heart

I’m from ruined arguments and tears shed over meals

and from lies told with false hope, only to be broken and retold again.

From my mothers broken relationships, and my parents divorce

and from my sister's strength, that has gotten me through family dinners

And finally I am the spirituality my mother has taught me,

Her magical herb garden, that could cure a broken heart and a sore throat

From the people i have loved, and those that aren't here today

I’m from my mothers hugs, and her wise words

The words i will carry on for generations of women to come

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I am from dusty adobe walls

from muddy paints and parched flowers.

I am from the dry and brittle arroyos surrounding my home

that smell of corn pollen and soot.

I am from the coyotes and jackalopes that dance around the thorned juniper trees

whose long-gone limbs I remember

as if they were my own.

I’m from achieved ambitions and idiosyncratic artistry.

I am from Abraham, Lazar, and Gershon

from Nancy, Barbara, and Lillian.

I’m from orange and yellow mornings

and the metallic taste of starch.

I’m from scraped knees

and the Acequia Madre who taught me the legend of La Llorona.

She, who rode coyotes and paced around my house after dusk,

weeping

for me to leave my room,

hoping she could embrace me.

I am from the lanky mountains that encircle Santa Fe.

I drink from the rivers of the Sangre de cristos, and breathe the smokey mourning air of sun mountain.

I am from the fortune of Holocaust survivors

Who came to the United States to protect their stories

Who’s names were changed to preserve my own.

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I am from the photo albums

gathering dust in my father's study,

detailing the lives of generations before us.

I'm from Evil Eyes, Virgencitas, and Stars of David,

strung along necklaces and bracelets,

gifted symbols of love and protection.

I am from moving trucks and transatlantic flights,

A Sunday morning's call for "llauchas calientes"

and the constant waft of spices.

I am from the walks along the Washington mall,

Tea in the national sculpture garden,

sat at the table beneath the old oak tree

whose long limbs I remember

as if they were my own.

I'm from creative translations and poly-lingual conversations.

From Ashkenazi Jews and jovial Bolivians,

pushed from their homes by blind hatred and despotism.

From ancient gods and calling our ajayus,

from Hebrew prayers that hang in the air like a secret message of hope.

I am from a world of love and light;

somewhere respect is unconditional.

I'm from my father's deep voice and muted guitar,

putting an end to my sleepless nights.

Biennial reunions over batches of pancakes,

an unspoken promise of love

that remains unaffected by time and space.

I'm from the nooks and crannies of the world;

forgotten capitals and tourist destinations.

Coffee shop empanadas, and street-side falafel.

I am from my Grandpa Rawly,

christened such by a pre-schooler learning the ins and outs of the English language for the first time.

From 'Goodnight Moon' and 'Where the Wild Things Are'

I am from French, English, and Spanish.

I am from Nepali, Russian, and Arabic.

From language barriers nurturing a love for books,

Once the only friends I had,

now a lifetime mapped through literature lining the walls

of home after home after home.

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I am from the big white desk in front of my window

From the old Harry Potter book in my shelf that my grandma gifted to me and the beautiful flower painting hanging in my living room

From the the yellow and orange house, with old red car inside, full of flowers and plants everywhere you look

From the smell of freshly baked brownies and sneaking away with them so my brothers can’t eat them

From the stunning purple orchids my dad puts so much effort into

I am from the relentless sea extending to the horizon, sea foam fighting with the rocks

whose roaring cries I remember

as if they were my own.

I’m from the family reunions in my grandma’s house and going out every sunday to get yogurt ice cream

from mama and papi

From eating together at the table every sunday and having barbecues together with the chamos

And from spending the long weekends with all my family in a house in front of the beach

From hearing bachata, merengue and reggaeton until late at night in family celebrations

And “Estudia mucho y consigue una beca para que te vayas del país” and years of believing our accent is horrible

I’m from the three little dogs always running around the house while our cat just observes

I’m from an island in the middle of the caribbean, with a mix of african and spanish influence

Los pasteles en hoja around christmas and sancocho when it’s chilly and rainy

From how my great-grandpa wouldn’t let his daughters go to school when Trujillo used to visit their town

I am from the advice my grandma gave me

And her little apartment, with beige walls and old couches

From her love of art and reading, from her books and paintings

I am from all the memories, all the places that I’ve lived through

And my grandma’s hugs

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I am from the shelves stacked with sheets upon sheets of Beethoven, Bach and Bruch

from the growing and flourishing plants and the gentle tip tapping of the dripping and drooping  tap that's always been such a way. I am from the pebbles that  flow into bricks, to thatch, weaved with vines that pave and canopy my walls in love, care and that feeling of home, that comes from the spice of sweet sugar and crushed cinnamon.

I am from the daffodils that sway, soar and surrender to the easy breeze of the Scottish spring winds. Those winds in which birthed a flower that would soon be a rose and

whose long gone limbs I remember

as if they were my own.

I’m from the branch of olives that are taken as time strikes its twelve hour and the leaves that each hold memory of the 17 secret wishes it's kept, just for us, and only us to know. From my grandmother now and grandmother  then.

I’m from midnight cocoas and slow sunday risings

and from the elevenses of pooh and his adventures that let the honeysweet thoughts flow from mind to morals  as I’m from “nourish to flourish” and “embrace the uncertainty”and “ dont worry, be happy”

I’m from the fluttering forest fairies that leave kisses, wishes and gifts of love on my billow pillow on the 25th nigh

I’m from the thistle tree and rolling highland hills and the ‘indígena peruvain andinos’

And the chicha morena that sticks to our purple lipped smiles.

From the boat that abuela and abuelo spent those 42 days and nights, swapping stories of courage and fear, love and betrayal, sweet or sour, apple juice or that of orange, as the waves rise with their surging  love and threaten to wash away all that was good, pure and loving . But as they held each others hearts and prayed to Pachamama, she listened and sang songs of ‘Scarborough,Skye and  and the isles coated in seashells’ ….and she whispered the sea to be hushed.

From the broken record player that is broken but never breaks a tune , and the pawprints that stain and are always sustained, the gentle ring of laughter that is wrapped on my finger in a circle of purity, the lingering smell of canella so sweet, and to the pantone out the oven (ah so fresh!) and the rose bush, still laying  protected.

For as I am Rose and Rose will always be I, the twelve hour will strike still ,the  easy breeze will remain to be, as despite the distance, this home will always be me.

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I am from the kettle that keeps its tea hot overnight

from dormitory bunk beds that smells like damp wood and rice soaked in chicken soup on the weekends

I am from an overdose of unexpressed affection

From the residue of raw meat and onion on my nanny’s apron

I am from the honeysuckles climbing from my grandma’s house into our garden

The three sweet osmanthus trees that blooms gold in the autumn wind

whose long gone limbs I remember

as if they were my own.

I’m from the thousands of “do you love me” and the thousands of “I love you a lot”

from the father who knows too much about how to make a living and the mother who knows too much about how to enjoy life

I’m from midnight conversations in the bathroom corner and the city map with ice cream stores highlighted

and from tacitly hiding our worst from our closest ones

I’m from father’s “know when to be quiet” and mother’s “slap them back when you’re beaten”

and banners of “socialism with Chinese characteristics” filling the street

I’m from the books that I’m too young to read

And the truths that I’m too young to know

I’m from a city too liberal for its own good and a country too stable for its own good

From pickled beans and rice noodles

From the best parts of the chicken my grandpa secretly gives me before dinner

And the movies he secretly brought my mother to watch when she was a child

From the father of my father that I had never seen

And the hugs and kisses of my younger sister

I’m the residues of home that carved its imprint into my physical existence

Because leaving the house is always easier than

Leaving home.

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I am from the junk drawer in my house that takes lifetimes to rummage through

from the harmonica on my fathers desk and the scrapbook on my mothers

And the smell of the shabbat dinner that my mother perfects every week

I am from the purple buganvilia wrapped around our patio

The tree, that for the life of me I can't remember the name, that held my swing set so dearly

whose long gone limbs I remember

as if they were my own.

I am from singing traditional jewish songs and family movie nights where it was a miracle if we’re able to choose a film,

from my sisters and I’s inside jokes and speaking gibberish with my cousins in order to play together.

I’m from my mother singing abba songs the entire car ride and exchanging jokes around the dinner table

I am from stubborn fights that lead to nowhere.

I am from the chosen people and being the baby of the six children

From the half siblings that aren’t limited to that title

I am my sister making up songs for each family member

I am from long talks with relatives until the sun slipped away from us

I am from Klil, South Africa and Finland

Kaalipata and Goulash

And not to forget the kuku that the duka would make for me

I am a third culture kid, confused as to where to stand

From being born on my brothers golden birthday

while he refused to admit that we shared the same day

I am from the pictures of my cousin and i growing up

on my grandparents beside table

I am a mosaic of my family, friends, memories, stories

I am everyone and no one

All at once

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From where I am


I am from arteseñias salvadoreñas,
Of idols of Shiva,
And African baskets.

I am the smell of masala when my grandmother comes,
And pupusas every fifteenth of September.

I am into candles on Diwali and saris that shine in the sun.
I am from my Tatitamando with his strong soul,
And dinners that last hours.

I am from “mono menzo, rindete!”,
And “duermeta niña, duermete ya”

I'm from Mercedes Sosa, full volume in the car,
Of mango trees that grow free everywhere,

I am from Shimla, a town in the Himalayas,
And my grandparents' house in San Salvador, with bullet holes in the door from the war.

I am from beans and chai,
From my grandmother moving to the US with only two saris,
From running in the forest barefoot,
Of playing beneath the Nyasa sunset,
And the Gule Wamkulu dance.

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I am from the coffee pot standing on the kitchen countertop

from the vanilla scent my bedroom candle spreads and the speaker in the living room that plays our favorite songs.

I am from the two story house in the middle of the jungle

With that hot weather that makes me walk around shirtless

I am from the orchids my stepfather plants for my mom’s delight

The small tree my little brothers and I used to talk to

whose long gone limbs I remember

as if they were my own.

I’m from the birthday dinners at restaurants and drinking coffee right when I wake up

from Franco and Sebastián

I’m from leaving the surf boards on the car after the beach and long nights in our balcony

and from watching movies with my mom in the TV room.

I’m from my dad traveling around the world and Jesus magically leaving Christmas gifts under a tree

and saying “thank you God” every time I finish my meal

I’m from going on a nice trip right on January 1st when a new year is ahead of us.

I’m from San José and costarican

rice and palm heart

From my grandpa who died when I was 6,

as my only fatherly figure

Eating the nicest lunch meal in my grandpa's last father's day

I am from my sacred bedroom where I pray with my eyes closed.

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I am from the cramped apartment on the 47th floor,

The constant moving  boxes and school buses flying through the city,

The small cracks in the big world where you feel it like a fever dream,

The work work work but also play play play,

I am from conversations at my small round dinner table,

Where woman gossip and generations intertwine over soup and rice,

Where trains and buses and trams whisk around,

Where air is never pure but the streets are always full,

I am from the sudden move the big change,

The big city to small town with no more apartments but instead green fields,

The once big family now only three, the breaking home far away, the now angry teen,

The new friends the new feelings, the wish to go back but never able,

I am from a new beginning once again where three a family is enough love,

Where Im in a city once again but this time new, but this time I am new,

Where an angry teen lets go and heartbreak grows up into new metamorphosis,

Where the city is so colourful so unique so what I want to be.

I am from love,

Music now in the air, conversations full of pain and conversations unsaid,

Train rides with myself, beautiful stops and beautiful books,

Streets  although walked again and again never dulling always new

A language I cannot understand, but my language now full of expression knowledge and philosophy.

# data[].attributes.body
I am from the books stacked on top of my closet.

From the cassava root that we pick from our garden on weekends and the white grand baby piano in our living room

I am from my mother’s plants and the imperfect wooden floors

From the vanilla and lavender scent

I am from the dandelions and kamboja flowers

I am from the giant rambutan trees my grandfather planted in my backyard

whose long gone limbs I remember

as if they were my own.

I am from Ramadhan nights filled with grateful dinners and the unique stories to tell

I am from my mother and my father

I’m from free of rules and strict curfews

and from going on unimaginable adventures.

I am from sleepless nights and never ending days.

I am from “you are the daughter of Abraham, keep the name clean”.

and sleeping to the orchestra of Tchaikovsky Swan Lake.

I am from the Java Island of Indonesia with a mix of dutch, arabian & italian ancestors

Made from the rendang and spicy homemade sauces

I am from my father, who left first thing in the morning and came back really late at night.

From my father, who is always there but not there enough for me.

And finally, I am from my father’s car keys, placed on our shoe drawer that takes me to places around the world
I am the books that are stacked on top of my closet. The books that are filled with countless stories that people have not yet read.

# data[].attributes.body
This doesn't really follow the template sorry

I am from the clay plates

on the shelves, their maker

plated my heart with

theirs, and I am from

the bushes that grow

of their delicate veins,

I am from the blood of their grower,

my veins in winding patterns

like the patterns of paint

that watch me

from the wall, or the floor

I never met her

but I feel like I know her,

I can see her in the lines of the paint.

They whisper of trees an ocean away,

like the Magnolia and its buds,

peeling away the layers

discarded on the floor

whats inside is always much smaller.

I see someone else

in the base of the lamp,

so carefully sculpted by hand, along the grain,

it lets the light shine

from a far away source,

scattered - but never quite gone.

I am from not knowing

where the light shines from

as undoubtedly all of us are,

that light lets me see the world

in its unplaceable hue

it brightens the cavern

under my bed. I see the books

I wrote in, and don’t remember a word of -

a skeleton of the person

I used to call ‘me’.

A jar of shells,

from who knows where

‘they sailed away in a sieve’.

If I sailed away, how much would I still know?

How much could I carry in the sieve?

I can’t remember

how much I’ve forgotten -

but Panda and Polar bear do, I touch their

plastic fur with the same fingerprints

but formed from a different skin.

It's a skin that will one day stretch and warp

it comes for everyone

and I wonder what stories

my skin will tell -

will they see the patterns

on the wall?

# data[].attributes.body
I am from the kite of 4 stars, the northern cross.
The very kite my dad flew with me in the fierce manly winds
I am from the swinging plastic swing seats of the island I can now only crouch upon - once big, now outgrown.
I am from the warm touch of the wharf's concrete - the concrete we soak with salt water after a day of summer sunburn.
I am from the smell of the crêpes my dad makes downstairs on Sundays, reminding us of our Mauritian roots. Our roots, squashed by the iron boots of cigarette-stained tradies.
I am from the wooden treehouse in the mangroves, the rickety ferry shack, and my favourite song which always changes.
I am from the swaying spring trees that our First Nation's peoples used to share their wisdom under.
I am from the English language and the rough slang of my neighbourhood.
I am from the odd comfort of my grandmother's catholicism - frowned upon by my atheist mother, yet something I found inviting.
I am from the Mediterranean brown eyes and curious nature of my father, a misunderstood man.
From the similarities we share, that often
confuse me,
anger me,
frighten me. Am I not my own person?
But I also come from the sharp mind and smirk of my mother,
something I pride myself in.
I am from the curiosity of my cousins, the passionate arguments of my parents, and the crude jokes we tell at dinner.
I am from the kite of 4 stars, the kite I once flew.
But now I am under another kite,
one I cannot yet fly.