The Pieces of Me

I am from books. Countless pages filled with the words I long to hear. Shelves stacked with stories I may never get to read.
I am from messy tables and counters, the plans of the day being too full to accommodate cleaning.
I am from my corner of the room between my two sisters; all our stuff spilling into each others because the room just couldn't hold it all.
I am from long summer days picking mulberries and cherries from the rows of trees out back.
I am from dark winters, when the only light source were the candles spread throughout the rooms.
I am from the lake, spending hours watching the pontoons lazily flow by, as the passengers wave  good-bye.
I am from memories, each one heavily photographed so we can never forget.

I am from my mother's looks, my father's thoughts, my grandmother's attitude.




I am not from money, from getting everything you want simply because you asked for it. 
I am not from immaculate rooms, for both my parents worked full time and we were babysat by my grandmother.
I am not from perfect holidays; there's been an argument or disagreement at almost every holiday for as long as I can remember.
I am not from a doctor-free life; I've visited one every 3-4 months since I was 6, and will continue to until my demise.
I am not from a picture perfect family, where everyone laughs and smiles all the time.
I am not from failure, my parents have always tried their best to do what's right, as have I.
I am not from anger; though sometimes we blow our tops, the unconditional love of family is ever-present.

I am not from pettiness, from an artificial life, from a facade.




I am from real life, with all it's ups and downs. And I wouldn't have it any other way.