Kimmery Galindo

Where I Come From
By Kimmery Galindo

I come from a place where you can catch June bugs

In the dark of a backyard with nothing but your pair of hands

And the help of an older brother.

I come from his Batman costumes with muscles built in

From pancakes on Christmas and fried plantains on Easter.

I come from a father’s Caribbean island exile

From what it was like to live through a revolution

Sell bottle caps on a Cuban sidewalk,

and feel freedom for the first time.

I come from couch cushions swallowing me whole

I come from karate class and soccer practice

And an indoor jungle that mom called home.

I learned to walk among dogs and fish, parrots and canaries

I come from their songs.

I come from Rice-a-Roni boxes, from Happy Meal Fridays,

From sunny skies and off-white curtains with blue trim.

I come from a beautifully curled head of blonde hair

A working woman who never sat down, who didn’t yell,

Who cried in private or never at all.

I come from my mother’s strength, her laugh, her stubborn love.

I come from Coca Cola, store bought sweetness, and video games

from a father who had a gun, from the sound of crows shot dead

in our yard, the sound of silence when they were gone.

I come from Sundays, from holding a cross and talking to God

From saying I’m sorry and from feeling alone at lot of the time.

I come from being told to tame my wild tongue, to be a lady,

To make nice, even with the mean kids.

I come from shag rugs that made me sneeze, from adventures

that usually ended with a set of stitches in my brothers head.

I come from trouble, from breaking the rules,

Giving the dog a haircut, teaching my babysitter to do my homework,

Reading under the covers.

I come from wondering why mermaids kept hidden

Why dessert can’t come first, why geometry matters

And why people sometimes leave.

I come from Tuesday night television,

from falling asleep on my mother’s shoulder

and from never knowing

Quite how to tell her thank you.