Editor’s note: We’re looking for a variety of young voices to contribute to “Hits Different.”
If you’d like to write a commentary, send it to Area Editor Jason Hennington at [email protected].
I’m from disappearing scissors From dropped socks and Dawn Dish Soap I’m from the hay bales in the distance (Round, scratchy, best for getting away and laying on them.)
I’m from Pompa’s Poplar Tree the mountain laurel both of their roots coming from another place from each of my parents’ old homes I’m from hearing aids and forgetting of phones from Lynnette and Randy I’m from the sensitive and the there-for-each-other from, “Shhh, not that loud!” and “We’re right here.”
I’m from I am saved through him Who was slain on the cross and the lessons we learn from the people he still teaches through.
I’m from KatiAnn and Daniel’s Branch from giant chocolatechip cookies and sweet lemonade From my little brother’s close to loss of sight to the flying wooden sign the months of sickness that almost took my father.
In a chest hiding behind books on my shelf keeps the things from my past: wristbands, coins, cards gifted from faraway relatives, tickets from memorable events, letters, photos among photos right across the room from my bed to think about those memories pictures I may not even remember but are there to know I am from those moments — snapped before I budded — leaf-fall from the family tree.
