Origins

Where I’m from

my photo

Leaving my family was the stupidest thing I’d done,

my grandmother said to me when she was eighty.

She left Italy for America in 1938,

only to return home when everything had changed,

and everyone she loved was gone.

I didn’t heed her words as a warning,

leaving everyone, everything.

I had gotten used to longing and looking back, like my grandmother had.

Then,

I realized that in leaving, I had found all the little pieces of me:

I am from a loving family, formidable friendships,

and a kitchen that always smells like minestrone.

I’m from a place with a rugged coastline, foggy mornings

and hills filled with oak and redwood trees.

My origins make me who I am.

This is my unum.

This is home.