I Am From pt2

I am from sitting in the front row church pew I never wanted to be in twice. The genuine smiles in the photos on the memory board were oh-so-different from The ones we plastered on at the American Legion and the Irish pub There we gulped bottomless Shirley Temples and spent twenty dollars on darts. All to distract ourselves from what we’d lost. To distract us from what would be missing from that orange brick house in Westridge Farms. I am from the silence that settled once the last guest had paid their respects. And the quiet tears that escaped our eyes. The ones that still linger two and a half years later Because whenever I try to picture the moments my brain blocked out. I see that orange brick house in Westridge Farms My home, which may now be white, like the 3 feet of snow that covered the driveway one winter. Or maybe it’s brown, like the carpet of the hotel we’d always go to together. Maybe it’s even the lush green that coated the backyard when the garden was in bloom. But I’ll never know, because where I am from isn’t mine anymore. I am from my struggles and heartache From “did you move your magnet” and “take your meds” I am from sitting stiffly on a two-person couch while I forced words out of my mouth. For years and years, I fought a chemical imbalance it seemed nothing would ever fix But then the closed doors led to new, beautiful ones. My lungs gulped in air for the first time since I was an innocent child waking up in that orange brick house in Westridge Farms. Now, I am battle-scarred and bruised From the war in which I emerged victorious.