I am from books and momentary escapes. From worry and mystery.
I am from the secrets we keep. The truth that is hidden.
I am from the daisy in the front yard and the black eyed susan in the back yard.
I am from strength and stubbornness, from James and Rita. From Eleanor and James and Armando and Francesca.
I am from the highs and lows.
From emergency rooms, capture the flag, the tilt-a-whirl, secrets and blacked out Patriots games on the radio.
I am from the cross and 12 years of nuns.
I’m from Boston and Ireland, Scotland and Italy. From potatoes and pasta.
From the Andrea Doria sinking, the cardboard salesman in Boston, alcohol and the Battle of Monte Cassino.
I am from the burned clump of pennies. From the old picture album and pictures on the wall. From my father’s copies of marriage, death and birth records.
Everything has made me stronger and what I am today.