I Remember Where I Am From

as the sun rises over the lake in my hometown

I am from overflowing ashtrays, from store-brand cereal and late payments.
I am from steep wooden front steps (rickety & flaking, slats of light blooming the chickweed).

I am from ancient volcanic rock and clear rolling creeks tumbling to Lake Superior, whose freezing waters and crashing waves move through me.

I am from democrats and railroad men, from Georgeanne and Alice and Adelle. I’m from chain-smoking and late nights with Johnny Carson, from “Go out and play” and “Get out of my sight.”

I am from ex-communicated from the Catholic Church for divorce and racing for donuts after the Lutheran service.

I am from Duluth and Lampton, Lowry’s baked chicken and apple-walnut salad.
I am from my father’s father who dropped dead after a short life of inch-thick butter on crackers, and my mother’s mother who caught cancer from all those dry cleaning chemicals.

But high on my closet shelf, behind my cardigans and cotton dresses, are stacks of fancy vintage hats from my father’s mother, Adelle, the only grandparent who lived to meet me, and her sister, Alice, who loved me so. The same hats they wore to the Glass Block in Duluth every day and to the Field Museum when the World’s Fair came to Chicago.

I am from those hats, their feathers and sequins and nets, their fine-woven hope for all that blooms with chickweed and ash.