A Tarzan A Swing And A Hammock

Eda

I am from my parents. I am from my mom’s pancakes in the morning. And from my dad who would do anything for me when I am sick. I am from my parents.

I am from my home. Where I am shielded from all the harm I know of. From the air vent in my living room that makes too much noise, but only when I’m watching T.V.   I am from my home.

I am from my bedroom where I can be myself. From my blanket that warms me, like meeting a best friend that you haven’t seen in years. I am from my stuffed panda that keeps me warm in the darkness. I am from my bedroom.

I am from that big old oak tree in my backyard. I am from the way it covers me like a big leafy roof. The way it holds a tarzan, a swing, and a hammock without complaining once. I am from watching tiny pink and white flower buds grow from the branches in the spring, watching the petals fall off one by one as though they have been rehearsing for this moment for years, forming a pink and white blanket on the grass, which I don’t dare step on, scared that I will ruin the beauty. I am from the big oak tree.

I am from my family.  They are my home, they are my light, and they are my darkness. They give me hope, they make me feel big when I feel little. They are the reason I get up in the morning. They make me who I am.  My family is where I’m from.