Where I’m From

Both Fred and DocRock have inspired me to try a “Where I’m from” exercise… Others have responded to Fred’s initial call. It was a lot of fun.

I come from the fog, from the fog round the bridge. I could see from the sink that the bridge peeped out, orange.

From the place where the dog caught the snake, a bright garter.

From the lounge of a ship, singing into a mike.

From grandma’s sickbed that we reached in a bus, where a Lancashire gray steady rain plinked on down.

From the car driving south, French appendicitis.

From my polio calligraphy-scratch in Madrid by the doctor. He spoke in a language we couldn’t make out.

From my first day at Numont, alone and afraid. From the tree in the garden, on my branch, hidden well.

Up the street in bare feet, a cement-diamoned sidewalk. For popsicles we learned to call “polos”; for comics.

From the market that smelled, called “The Smelly Market.” Where Mum went to buy “escabeche” and lemons: we sat in the Valiant, our noses assailed.

From paintings on white paper bordered in black. Entitled “Dibujo,” there was lots of white space.

From Jennifer’s pool, holding swirled Pepsi bottles. Grownups smoked and drank beer and drank gin and drank scotch.

From the playhouse we made, from our dreams of true love; from the secrets we shared, like the hamsters that mated.

From the cartoons in Spanish. A kindly bus driver. Past the guards wearing three-cornered hats, bearing guns.

From the restaurants we ate at, where I ordered, in charge. Where we kids had our food on our table, apart. Where the children around us were well-dressed, cologned; where we ran—tolerated—rambunctiously foreign.

From the black market goodies, American food. St. George’s on Sunday, and chocolate cake.

From the red bike Dad brought on his trip back from London.

From our first trip alone on the metro downtown. I don’t think we told them we’d gone. Well, we did.