Where I am from

I am from the air that smells
pungently
like cow manure
that the farmers spread before planting soybeans.

I am from the place where the two parallel mountain ranges curve,
making me believe for awhile
we were surrounded by those beautiful blue ridges
like a fence with no gate.
But I didn’t feel trapped
because of the brilliant reds and yellows in the fall
and the deep green hues in the spring
and the clouds that seemed to stretch from the mountaintops
backlit at sundown in a deep red
and sometimes purple.

I am from the grass, wet with dew,
that I laid on
stunned
at the carpet of stars laid out before me.
It was dark,
scary,
but it was light
especially in a full moon
where the moon felt so close I just knew I could pluck it out of the sky.

I am from Douglas
who never lived more than three miles away from where he grew up
except those two years where he chose the way of Jesus instead of the way of violence and warfare.
A faithful, serving, humble man
who quietly did his best to give you his full attention
a serious man with a serious twinkle in his eyes
committed to work
but when the time came
ready to laugh.

I am from Rowena.
A sparkplug of a woman
who gives and gives and gives
until it hurts
then gives some more.
Whose giving is so consistent she is often taken for granted
or mistreated,
I believe,
because people have seen she will absorb it,
quietly,
and continue to give.

This is (some) of where I am from.

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